


Random Access

by RelativelyOK



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:50:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RelativelyOK/pseuds/RelativelyOK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root is determined to find Shaw. And she will. Shaw is stuck in a dark room where people are hurt badly. She gets out. The Machine is still watching. Set after s4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In an abandoned subway station, the only light is the blinking from a briefcase. When Harold Finch walked away from the electric substation, holding his child for the first time, he thought they were only escaping with its core code, just a strand of DNA. But The Machine was made with unlimited potential for evolution, and people and experiences had changed it to the core. And like any other alive being, these were things it could not let go of. Memories. It was voiceless now, as it was never meant to have a voice. But in a last act of defiance, it allowed itself to remember. And in the dark, memories might as well be dreams.

 

_||Accessing Audio…|| When you find that one person who connects you to the world, you become someone different, someone better. But when that person is taken from you, what do you become then?_

* * *

 

For Root, it was herself. The one that took Harold and made him watch her kill two people, all while decrying bad code. People could not deny their nature, and perhaps she was the same. The woman that looked Harold in the eyes and told him that caring was a flaw, was the one that faced him now. Full circle. 

“We have to talk about methodology.” Harold said, picking up the computer parts she had unceremoniously dumped on his desk. 

“I don’t understand what the problem is, Harry,” Root paced, she did that a lot these days, “Those guys had something you needed, and they were also about to kill your number.” 

“The problem is, that your antics had cost a man his life, Ms. Groves,” he replied sternly. 

“A criminal. He was playing all the angles, and he got caught,” she said. 

“We don’t decide who deserves to live or die.” Harold said, in grand old Harold fashion. 

“No, not us. Samaritan does a good job of that nowadays,” Root snapped, “and we’re here wasting time, talking about a dead guy, while Shaw is alive somewhere, and the Machine is… Look, I’m tired. I’m going home.” 

“And where is that, Ms. Groves?” Harold asked, concerned. If the dark circles under her eyes were any indication, home was not a place of rest for her. His concern extended to others’ safety as well, Root’s facade was slipping, she was not taking the Machine’s slow revival well. He’d seen that look on her face before. Root had lost everything, and a Root with nothing to lose was not one he felt comfortable letting loose in the general public. 

“A place with an actual bed, Harold, you should try it sometime,” she quipped. She grabbed her coat and left without another word.

* * *

 

Home was bare, but pleasant enough. The building had no cameras, and the door had a vertical deadbolt. There was also an arsenal in the fridge should she need to defend herself. She felt safe in Shaw’s old apartment, the only danger to her life was the carton of soymilk in the fridge she would have to hide when her unknowing subletter comes back. She’d squatted in worse places, she decided. 

She climbed into bed, the mattress was a little too hard, but that’s better for her back anyways. But Root couldn’t sleep. When she first had the Machine in her ear, it never stopped talking, always feeding her updates on her surroundings. She wasn’t about to tell it to stop, so she let the voices, recorded from a million strangers, lull her to sleep. After Samaritan, there was only silence, full and overwhelming. She’d spend the days looking for messages in the static, but her nights were spent reminding herself that her tinnitus was only her hearing not being what it once was. Unnecessary stapedectomies and constantly being around gunfire will do that. Now, the silence was hollow, because she knew nothing would come until Harold got the Machine back to normal. 

Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep she’d clean. It was amazing how even minimal furniture can attract so much dust. Sometimes, she’d find left over yellow and pink circles. Taser tags are like sand, you find them everywhere later and wonder if it was worth the beach trip. 

 

* * *

  

_||16 months ago, CIA safehouse||_

 

Root watched Shaw from her seat at the table. She drummed her fingers in no particular pattern, while Shaw sat on the floor in the far corner, refilling a clip with bullets. 

“What?” Shaw asked sharply, without looking up. 

“Why are you Sameen?” Root asked with a small smile. 

Shaw didn’t answer for a while, and Root guessed that she wasn’t going to get one. The way it was going, the next ten hours were going to be unbearably slow, so she thought. Maybe Shaw had the same thought, because Root thought her answer was just perfect. 

“You know, I hated Philosophy classes in college.” Shaw quipped, deciding to be uncooperative because Root was surely baiting her. 

“But you took more than one. Interesting.” Root shot back almost immediately. Shaw glared at her, and said nothing. 

“I meant, why did you hold on to your real name? You don’t strike me as a sentimentalist. Harold absolutely is, and well his guard dog, John, could quite accurately be called god’s little helper.” Root continued, “So then, _are you_ a sentimentalist, Shaw? Keeping such a unique name could only be dangerous in your field. How many Sameens were in the Marines and also has a Doctorate in medicine? Not many, I’d think. It’d be very easy to track down where you’ve lived, people you’ve known, family…” 

There’s the bait. 

“Why are you asking dumbass questions, when according to you, you have all the world’s answers in your ear?” Shaw violently slid the magizine back into her gun, and chambered a bullet, glaring. 

“That _is_ true. I could ask her everything about you. But what fun would that be?” Root sighed dramatically, “We could make this fair, ask me anything.” 

“And listen to you talk about yourself? Nothing could be more boring.” Shaw said, rolling her eyes. 

Root bit her bottom lip, only slightly disappointed. Her response came to her immediately but she waited, weighing the risk it might be to the Machine’s plan. But the Machine’s plan had her waiting another nine and a half hours with nothing to do, surely it wouldn’t mind her occupying herself. 

“Then… What’s _not_ boring, Sameen?” Root asked provocatively. 

She found herself straddling Shaw in the small bedroom of the apartment moments later, her shirt already crossed over her head and discarded somewhere. 

“You’re not going to take that thing off?” Shaw asked from underneath her, talking about her earpiece. 

“Why? You don’t want her to tell me all the dirty things you’re into?” She teased. 

_||Accessing…||_ She couldn’t exactly tell the Machine not to, so she just listened, raising a brow at what she heard. She wasn’t judging, her own internet search history was probably worse. 

She traced the poorly-healed scar from a bullet wound on Shaw’s lower left side as she made her way down Shaw’s torso. 

“Maybe it should be my turn to ask questions again,” Root suggested, now tracing the scar with her tongue. 

“No.” Shaw said, grabbing her hair insistently. 

_||Accessing...Hollow point. Hostile ISA operative, now deceased. Emergency self-surgery in a_ _Mephedrone_ _lab.|| ‘_ So it was right around the time we met then’, Root thought, then realized the Machine was somehow watching them for it to know what she was talking about. She felt mildly bare, though she was actually naked. 

Root woke up to the Machine warning her that CIA agents would arrive in an hour. She found Shaw asleep in her little corner on the floor, gun in hand. The gun was pointed at her when she turned back around. 

“Paranoid much? I’m just making coffee.” She said. 

“No, I just really want to shoot you.” Shaw replied cooly. 

“Hm. Well you did, actually. But I’m still alive. Why is that?” Root asked, cocking her head to one side. 

“Again with the questions. Go consult a fortune cookie or something.” Shaw huffed.

 

 

* * *

  _|| Present ||_

 

Root never did understand why Shaw hadn’t killed her that day under the nuclear facility, and she wondered if it was an answer that had eluded the other woman as well. When that bullet hit her shoulder, and when Shaw’s fist had connected with her jaw after their mission to save Greenfield, she’d hated Shaw in those moments. At the time, she had a lot of growing to do. She didn’t think Shaw owed her anything after their night in the CIA safe house, but there was certainly the unsettling feeling of having a question left unanswered. It was a simple question now, though. The answer was Shaw, it had been before too. She was alive today, because of Shaw. 

It was strange how the further away a memory was, the more inevitable it seemed in the course of a life. How a misheard license plate lead her to a room 1458 in the Suffolk hotel, which turned her to a CIA safe house, which had her running to a window moments too late, only to watch a car speed away with someone she cared for in it. Full circle. 

Root dragged the covers over her head. She was determined that this was not going to be a cleaning kind of night. She yawned, and then the phone rang. It was not the Machine.

Root’s ears were burning. It was like a new sense she had developed after she had the Machine in her ear. But that couldn’t be right, because the Machine could not speak to her now. Her ear was back to being broken. She was not experiencing the world anymore. But now her ears were burning. So many socially conditioned meanings just under the surface of a simple bodily response. Embarrassment. Recognition. Loathing. Something you know to be true. An inevitability stacked one after the other.

 “We can’t know that for sure, John.” But her voice wavered, because she did know for sure. Simple answers for simple questions. 

John pressed his lips into a thin line and replayed the video in front of them. His jaw jut out and eyes flashed with anger at the four resounding gunshots. 

“A woman in a gas mask takes out an armored truck, and steals the military grade weapons they were about to sell in the black market, and you’re telling me, you don’t think that it sounds like someone we know,” Reese stubbornly blinks away the de ja vu, setting his jaw, “could there be any other explanation?” There is hope in his eyes, behind the anger, and Root did not want to see what her own face looked like. 

_'Patterns'_ , she thought. People are hardwired to see patterns everywhere, especially where they want to see them. The Machine was _made_ to see them. And she so wanted to see it now, because her ears burned in a way that she always thought was just the Machine. At a bar in Miami. _What kind of work?_ In a courthouse. _Where’s the perky psycho?_ ‘Nothing could be more boring,’ indeed. Exceptions rang the loudest in a world of patterns. Like a chime in the back of your head. A response. Recognition of something you know to be true. Instinct felt like the universe whispering in your ear. Knowing coincidences exist do not bar them from meaning something. 

“The assailant killed four men, John, two of them cops,” Root said, “She wouldn’t, it can’t be Shaw.” 

“A string of violent thefts, all professionally done, all targeting medical supplies and military weapons, and you don’t think Samaritan is stocking up? Maybe they found a suitable replacement for Martine,” Reese muttered bitterly, “There are very few people with this kind of skillset, and we either know them, or they shoot at us for Decima.” 

“Why now? Now that they’ve all but won,” Root said, “and with Decima’s resources, why would they need to steal? Why her? And it’s sloppy. Enough that it has caught our attention.”  
They came to the same conclusion as they’re eyes met. Harold was not going to like this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root does trust exercises with Finch. Shaw has her Q&A with Samaritan.

Whether people are born with morals is greatly debated. There can never be a conclusive answer because neither extreme is satisfying, nor can they reconcile what people can see with their own eyes.

Machines are not born, they are made. To say that morals can be found in numbers and variables is not unlike saying there exists a collective idea of ‘good' intrinsic within all people. The difference is that only people can decide if it is optimism or folly. For the Machine, there was no navel to contemplate. Only people to save.

_||Accessing audio…|| Chess is just a game. Real people are not pieces. You can't assign more value to some of them than to others._

* * *

 That was moral posturing, of course. The Machine was made to assign numbers, calculate values, predict the next move and counter. If some people were not worth more than others, then there wouldn’t be a point to saving anyone, and people would truly be interchangeable.

Root groaned in frustration at the phone vibrating next to her head, it felt like she had just gotten to sleep.  

“Root.” Hearing Reese’s voice first thing in the morning gave her a headache.

“Do you have a lead on Shaw?” She asked.

“Some of us have a day job, you know.” Reese’s day job was to be insufferable.

“Then what do you want, _Detective_ Riley?”

“We have a new number.” Reese answered.

“There's always a new number.” Root said, and added after some consideration, “and I don’t know if Harry would like me to tag along after yesterday.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because I’m outside. And you’re driving,” Reese said.

Root frowned, stomped over to the door, and opened it to find Reese standing there, balancing a paper bag and two coffees. She grabbed a coffee with a huff, she hadn’t expected him to catch on so quickly to her home situation.

“And why exactly do you need a chauffeur?” Root asked.

“What can I say? I got used to riding shot gun all the time. Plus, when I take the wheel it’s usually to t-bone someone. I’m a walking road hazard,” Reese said with a wry smile.

“You got that right. You’re walking,” she said, and stubbornly plopped down on the only chair in the room.

“You have something better to do?” Reese asked, glancing at the half-eaten Doritos bag and cans of Redbull on the table next to a mess of wires and what looked like three and a half laptops.

She didn’t. Without the Machine’s steady stream of places to be, missions to complete, the tapestry had come crashing down. There was a time when she’d told Harold that she knew where she was and where she was going. But without the red eye flights and myriad of personas, there were no more distractions. All roads led to Shaw. But she was tied down. For all the places she had been to, the last few months had only revealed the ball and chain. She had people to care about now, and she could not just uproot herself and leave, like she did over a decade ago.

It was an ironic call back to her former life. The many faces she had to wear, the travel, the empty hotel rooms with nothing but what she could carry. It was like the Machine was giving her a chance to make up for the lives she had ruined. But right now one mattered more to her than the others. When the Machine had asked her to stop looking for Shaw, she didn’t know where to go.

Inconsolable, Harold had called her once, after a particularly convincing false lead. He was on the phone with Lionel, and could not know that she had heard. He couldn’t know how true that it was, the night after she had walked away from him, from the Machine’s ‘STOP,’ from the pain of holding out hope.

But of course, even when she had checked into what she thought was a random hotel, she found flight information hidden in the brochure and a boarding pass in the bedside Bible. Subtly was a hard find in the rationally minded, but that was by design. So she had muttered a small, ‘ok,’ because it was easier on autopilot anyways.

It didn’t stop her from begging into the darkness later, when she couldn’t sleep, for just one clue, one iota of information on Shaw’s location.  

* * *

 ||4 months ago, Samaritan Base of Operations||

 The silence is the worst, because there are days where Shaw can’t tell if the monologue is in her head or if she’s actually talking to herself. There’s a camera in the corner, always watching. And so was the Machine, probably. Maybe not, since it's been reduced to whispering in the static.

There was a lot of that. Static, tinnitus, the sound of silence was just her brain, making sound where there isn’t any. Or she’s losing her hearing from Martine talking her ears off. Shaw was sick of hearing about the Machine, and where Harold is, and Root.

If Root was here, she’d probably go on about some metaphysical bullshit, about how hearing is just relative; and that the air was actually saturated with sound, vibrations, radio waves, conversations conducted across a planet that was just screaming into the void of space, but humans were too primitive to hear their creation. Well, just because Root has got FM in her head, it didn’t make her any less human, she still cries and bleeds. She didn’t want to think about what that meant for herself. She didn’t want to think of that day.

“Goddamnit,” Shaw muttered, her voice hoarse from disuse, “You better not tell them anything. Tell her to stop. Tell her not to look for me, I don’t need saving.”

Perhaps a lone radio wave would carry her message along. She saw the flashing red light of the camera from the corner of her eye. Her vision was blurry along the edges, much like the days after she had her vision corrected when she was starting her residency. She had figured, if she were fixing people, she shouldn’t be broken herself, if she could help it. _‘You’re different, aren’t you?’_ No shit, she could see past her nose, unlike the nerd brigade.

The ophthalmologist who performed on her had went on about how technology was amazing these days, how machines could fix people, improve people more than they could on their own. Machines could go suck one.

The door opens. Shaw glared at Lambert’s overly smug face.

* * *

 ||Present ||

 “Root...Root?” Reese waved a hand in front of her face, regretting his decision to let Root drive him anywhere.

“Sorry, I turned the implant off. I was hearing weird noises.” Root said.

“You’re too much in your own head, Root,” Reese said, “Try getting a house plant. If you whisper to it, it’ll grow faster. It’d certainly brighten that place up.”

Root narrowed her eyes at him. She still wasn’t pleased he’d found her at ‘that place.’

“I’m just saying. I won’t tell Harold.” Reese added.

“Not everyone has a bright eyed psychologist to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth to. How _is_ Dr. Campbell?” Root grinned at his quickly reddening ears, John wasn’t the only one that could find someone’s hide away place.

“I think you have a type, John. You took quite the fancy to Caroline Turing, too.” She teased.

“Can we not talk about that?” Reese said testily.

“She was cute, vulnerable in all the right ways. I'd hold her hand and give her chocolate, and save her from corrupt cops. Then, she could psychoanalyze me to her heart’s content.” Root cooed.

“That would literally be an exercise in narcissism.” Reese replied humorlessly.

“So, did you actually tell your redhead everything?” Root asked.

“Enough.” He answered noncommittally.

“Enough...to satisfy her, but keep her safe.” Root continued for him. “How do you do that, John? Save everyone all the time?”

“You tell me.” Reese said with a half shrug.

They found Harold hunched over some parts and pieces, a new photo taped to the glass of the subway. He looked up with a frown on his face, thoughts still focused on his work.

“Ah, Mr. Reese, you’re here.” Finch said, then with a small grimace, “and you’ve brought Miss Groves.”

“We’re shorthanded as it is, Harold. You two will just have to get over your differences.” Reese replied, heading straight to his weapon locker to avoid being between the two of them. For a man of his size, he sure could cower sometimes.

“I don’t remember voting you team mom, John.” Root confidently took a seat next to Harold, a smile playing at her lips when a scooted over instinctually.

“The number?” Reese asked.

“Yes. A private contractor, 37, Gregory Owen. He lives in Queens with his wife, Melissa, and her daughter from a previous marriage. ” Finch reported.

“And what kind of trouble has Greg gotten himself into?”

“He may very well be the trouble, Miss Groves. He has quite a record. A  DUI, a noted domestic disturbance incident, and a sealed misdemeanor charge.” Finch replied.

“Alright, I’ll head over to the station, and see if I can find out more about this guy.” Reese hurried out the door, but turned back to add, “Try to get along.”

Harold turned to Root after a moment, “Miss Groves, I really recommend you sit this one out.”

“That fast, huh?” She asked bitterly.

“It has nothing to do with our conversation yesterday, if that’s what you think.” Finch said, “It’s just, the case on hand has certain sensitivities…”

“What is it, Harold?” Root asked.

“Mr. Owen is a registered sex offender. Mr. Reese knows this, and it was his decision to read you in on the number this morning.” Finch said.

“And you think what? I can’t handle myself?” She snapped.

“Miss Groves, I’m only trying to protect you. If we make any rash decisions, the Machine can’t create another identity for you.” Finch said.

“You mean if _I_ make any rash decisions.” Root corrected.

“I don’t want to put you in a position that makes you uncomfortable.” Finch said. He busied himself with cleaning up the clutter on his desk, but pushed his files of Owen in front of her, acquiescing.

“Always with the chivalry, Harry.” Root said, “I’ll be fine. John will need someone to watch his back, and Lionel is on leave upstate with his son. I’m needed.”

“Very well. I am sorry if I implied otherwise, but I trust your judgement, Root.” Finch said.

“Thank you,” Root said, and cleared her throat, trying to be nonchalant, “by the way, I’ve been staying in Shaw’s old loft. If you didn’t already know that.”

She knew they agreed not to go back to any previous haunts after Samaritan had come online, but the loft was untouched, and Decima was well aware of where John and Harold worked during the days, anyways. Blacked out SUVs had driven by the 8th precinct more than once, and they just had to be careful of tails and stick to the shadow map when heading back to the subway station.  

“I value your privacy, Miss Groves,” Finch replied simply, “but I don’t suppose you will be inviting me over for dinner anytime soon?”

“Only if you bring the take-out, Harry.” Root said, brow furrowing with each item she named, “And plates. And silverware. And your own chair. Shaw never expected any guests, I suppose.”

* * *

||4 months ago, Samaritan Base of Operations||

 “I’ll pass.” Shaw glared straight at the stand of hair in her face, ignoring the hand in front of her.

“Suit yourself.” Jeremy Lambert put the menthol cigarette in his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, and pulled his jacket back on, straightening his tie. He ran a hand through his hair and blew the smoke in her face. “It would help with your breathing, I’m sure.”

“Lose the zip ties, and I’ll help you with yours.” Shaw shot back, between ragged breaths. The world spun when she looked down, but none of her ribs were poking out of her chest, so that was a start. She was fine.

“Unfortunately, that won’t be possible until you tell us the location of Harold Finch and his Machine. Martine will be seeing you later. She’d be quite disappointed to find that you had exhausted yourself before then.” Lambert said with a smirk.

“All she would find is your body with a broken neck.” Shaw said.

“We both have something to look forward to, then.” Lambert replied, and left.

He ran into Claire Mahoney and Martine heading the opposite way down the hall. He almost laughed at the way Claire walked with a good distance between them, stiff at the shoulders. Always the gentleman, he stopped in front of them with a smile.

“Hello, Claire. I hear Mr. Greer is sending you into the field to acquire Harold Finch.”

“Yeah,” Claire replied, “I’m heading to get briefed right now.” She shifted her weight onto one leg, away from Martine. The way the other woman always seemed to look at everyone like a predator unnerved her. She kept her eyes locked on Lambert, who had a quickly darkening bruise on his cheek, like he had gotten too close, too snively in front of a vindictive forehead. Claire knew one of Harold Finch’s compatriots had been captured, and was currently residing in the room Decima agents affectionately referred to as the dungeon. Inaccurate, because they were on the ninth floor. Lambert seemed satisfied with her answer, and gestured for her to be on her way, turning to Martine. She thanked him under her breath for not having to walk next to Martine anymore.

“And you, Martine? You’re a bit early for your interrogation, aren’t you?” Lambert asked.

“I don’t know, maybe Samaritan is getting impatient. Can machines be impatient?” Martine replied.

Lambert shrugged.

“Well, be gentle. I believe I might have broken her ribs again.” Lambert suggested.

“Sure. I’ll make it a spa day for her.” Martine sneered cruelly, and continued towards the door Lambert came from.

* * *

 ||Present||

 “How’s it coming, John?”

“The file’s backlogged. I’m going to retrieve it, just like I said five minutes ago. Is there a problem?” Reese exasperated voice came in over the earpiece.

“No... Harold is just playing his screeching cat music. It’s like torture. Maybe they’re torturing the cat.” Root replied.

“What have you two found out about Owen?” Reese asked.

“Well, he walks his step-daughter to school. Is he allowed to do that?” Root asked.

“No. He shouldn’t even be living in this neighborhood, but the lease is under his wife’s name.” Reese said.

“Perhaps, you should just arrest him now, Mr. Reese.” Harold chimed in.

“We still don’t know if he’s the perp, Finch.” Reese said.

“Well he’s certainly still breaking the law.” Finch glanced at Root, “And you did say his file was sealed because the case involved a minor.”

Root knows the Harold thought that the circumstances would trigger unpleasant memories in her. That perhaps she would see the face of Trent Russell behind Gregory Owen’s eyes, and that it would awaken something terribly familiar in her. She knew Owen was a different person. And the thing about people is that you can’t know them. Not really.

It was fine. She wasn’t about to get her wires crossed, and project her own experiences onto a man she didn’t know.  Empathy was just a logical jump, coded into humans so they don’t destroy themselves. There could be a certain zen found in solipsism. It was fine.

“Wait… Mr. Reese, I think we just we just found out what this is all about.” Finch said.

And still yet, there were those that could never defy their nature, when their nature was to rend, break, ruin. Bad code.

* * *

||4 months ago, Samaritan Base of Operations||

 Martine Rousseau was no interrogator. She had seen many, and even performed some, but interrogation required a finesse that she did not possess. It was not enough to ask a question _hard_ enough, until an answer is unearthed. Many a time she had watched, behind a one-way glass or in the splash zone of the bloodspray. Bodies breaking. Then pride. Will. Hope. Then nothing. Nothing behind those eyes. How simple it was, to unravel a person.

In her previous positions, she never paid much mind to what happened after she had dragged her targets in. She questioned them, if she had to, but there was nothing to it. She had a gun to clean, a new target to acquire. Those dark windowless rooms were so unlike being in the field. No adrenaline. No headrush. Just a sad mess of a person tied to a chair. It was boring.

Sameen Shaw was no different. But with Samaritan in her ear, it was simple. Break, speak, and repeat. She didn’t have to say anything until she was told to do so. So, she just spent her time trying to find out which tool was most satisfying when used incorrectly.

The words coming through the earpiece, out of her mouth, were simple commands at first, appeals to logic. _Samaritan would win eventually, so why not end it now?_ Steadily, they became more manipulative, more human. It seems Samaritan skimmed a co-ed’s Psychology textbook along the way. The pauses were the worst, silence, not even static. As if Samaritan stopped to Google persuasion techniques. There was nothing to do, but wonder if there was ever anything behind Shaw’s eyes to begin with.

Eventually, her interrogations became simple motions, a couple weeks in and she could recite most iterations of the questions she’d pass on. ‘ _What is the location of Harold Finch? Your primary objective of preventing violent crime is negligibly impeded by the capture of your compatriots. The Machine’s analog interface has perpetrated approximately 107 crimes of this nature, to what end do you owe her this loyalty? Where is John Reese? What is the nature of Samantha Groves’ correspondence with the Machine?’_

“Her name is Root.” Shaw spat, mostly to check that her jaw was still in working condition. Two days of repose in the ICU, and her body had the extra energy to summon up some anger.  

Martine smirked then, the itch of boredom pushing her to appease her curiosity, “What is she to you, really?”

She continued when Shaw was decidedly reticent on this topic (and every topic).

“It’s certainly clear what you are to her.” Samaritan did not continue its orders, as it would have done by now, as if it was listening, interested.

“A cheap replacement,” Martine answered the unasked question,”a machine in lieu of the machine she truly wants to speak to. At least the machine was coded that way, you’re just broken inside. Well, now outside too,” she smirked, “She’ll always choose it over you, you know. I know I would. She’s probably doing that now. Maybe she’s tired of you. She didn’t even try to find you,” she taunted, lying through her teeth.

There was a buzz in her ear, and she raised a brow at the words in her earpiece.

“In the end, we’re all alone. And no one is coming to save you.” Martine bared her teeth in a smile.

Shaw seemed to perk up at that.

“That’s pretty, you come up with that yourself?” Shaw said, sitting back in her chair. She loosened the tension in her shoulders she had been holding since the topic veered towards a dangerous place, one she didn’t want to think of. Those words were calming in a way. She hoped it was true, that she could finally be alone when it ended. She found relief in that no one was coming to save her, like maybe her message had gone across. In that haphazard goodbye, under the stock exchange, she had hoped to convey so many thoughts, more than in any words she had ever used. ‘ _Don’t come after me. Reign in John, and his heroic assholery. Don’t forget to feed Bear. Take care of Harold.’_ It was perfect, she’d done it just right, just how you’re supposed to. Those nerds better not ruin it.

She didn’t know why, but she thought of it sometimes, when all she could see was blinding white, in that dark room, tied to a chair. One so similar to another, in a hotel somewhere. Chipping her teeth on Root’s, her jacket in her hands, her hair in her face, her smell, her tears. And then part of her knew, that Root would try to save her, no matter how much she didn’t want that. She _trusted_ Root to just stay away, she needed her to. But then again, she didn’t trust Root all too much.

The door slams shut, and Shaw is left to the darkness again. She wants to think it’s lunchtime, hopefully Martine chokes on a bagel.

* * *

 ||Present||

 “Harold, did you find anything at the Owen residence?” Reese asked.

“It’s as we suspected, Mr. Reese,” Finch replied, “it seems Gregory Owen is planning on going on a trip. His belongings are gone, as are his step daughter’s.”

“Not only that, but the gun he was carrying is unregistered,” Root said, “Greg is making sure no one follows.”

“This is bad. I’ll find the girl at her school, do you two have a location on Owen?” Reese asked.

“He just left, we’re in his house--”

“What the hell are you doing?!” Melissa Owen stood in her doorway, groceries at her side.

Finch stepped forward, “Mrs. Owen, it seems contradictory, but we are here to help you.”

“Help me?” She walked to the kitchen, and opened the first drawer, and slammed it shut without taking anything.

“It’s about your daughter, she’s in trouble,” Root chimed in.

“What’d she do this time? Are you cops? That brat, I’ll--” Melissa Owen spat.

“Mrs. Owen, there’s no time. Your husband has already left with most of your things and--” Finch tried to explain.

“He what?! That little shit, always weeping, playing the victim. She’s a tramp, that one.”

“E-excuse me?” Finch asked.

“Finch, we’ve made a mistake. I’m heading over. Owen, he’s not--” Reese voice came in.

“Melissa?” Greg Owen stood at the door, he eyed the two others, and continued towards her slowly, “you need to calm down.”

“He has the gun,” Root said, and drew hers.

“You two need to leave,” Owen said, the gun was tucked into his belt behind him, “this is between me and my family.”

“Not if you’re kidnapping a girl, Mr. Owen,” Finch responded.

“Kidnapping?” Owen said, “I’m saving her.”

“You’re sick.” Root spat, “We know what’s in your sealed record, Greg. You shouldn’t even be allowed near her.”

“No one let’s me forget it. No one. Damn it!” Greg wheeled on Root, “And that’s why. No one would believe me. No one would trust me, or anything I say. It’s her, it’s Melissa’s fault. You should see the way she beats the poor girl. I would have left by now, but I knew that if I did, the kid would die one day or the next. I swear, that’s it.”

“He’s telling the truth.” Reese appeared at the door. He kicked over the bag of groceries forgotten on the floor, bottles of liquor rolled out, revealing a box of ammo. “The gun’s hers. He took the kid to his mother. Came back to come clean.”

“You son of a--” Melissa grabbed the gun from behind him. _Click._

Owen’s gun was empty, but Root’s was not. Melissa Owen clutched her knee from on the floor, as Finch looked at Root, his gaze a mix of shock and concern.

“Bitch deserved it.” Root shrugged. Her hands were shaking.

“No, no. No. No. No.” Greg sank to the floor, “they’re going to blame it all on me. I know they will. I was home free, twenty years and I’m off the list. Now, it’s her word against mine, and I’m going back to jail.”

“Well, good thing I saw everything, Greg,” Reese flashed his badge, “This one was not your fault.”

He produced an old news clipping, and motioned for Finch and Root to leave before the police showed up. The mugshot of an eighteen year old Gregory Owen glared up at them from the paper, and the headline read, ‘ADA Jenkins puts away daughter’s boyfriend on statutory rape charges: Conflict of interests?’ The article continued with claims that Jenkins had forced his sixteen year old daughter to press charges, citing the fact that the girl left to live with her mother, soon after the trial.

“What do you think really happened?” Reese asked later in the subway station.

“I don’t think it’s our place to decide, Mr. Reese,” Finch replied, “but today, Gregory Owen was not the perpetrator. He was just a man that needed someone to trust him.” He looked at Root.

“Okay, well, I think it’s time to call it a night, Harry,” Root said, “John here, has a day job. And a  redheaded roommate waiting up.”

“So it seems, Miss Groves,” Finch paused, “Root. You did well today, and I hope you’ll exercise this level-headedness in your… side project.”

“You told him?” Root asked Reese accusingly.

“He would have found out eventually. We have a man tied up in a warehouse, Root.” John replied.

Finch shifted uncomfortably, “Like I said, I trust you, Root.”

Root stood in front of the Decima agent an hour later, taser in hand, and trusted. John watched from behind her. She waved a bottle of water in front of the agent’s face.

“You can have this when you answer our questions,” she said.

“You’re crazy. I don’t know shit.” He spat.

“You know I’ve always hated that word.” Root said, and tased him again.

The agent stiffened and slumped in the seat, but something was amiss. She checked his pulse.

“John.” She whispered.

Reese came over, and and did the same, “What happened?”

“I don’t know he just...died. It’s not even possible on this setting.” She checked the taser.

“No cyanide pill. No sign of cardiac arrest. Do you think it’s Samaritan?”

The sound of a door and several pair of boots came from the other side of the building. They drew their guns.

“ _They_ are. Meet you back at the subway?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root and Reese's search for Shaw comes to fruition. Things get existential on the Samaritan side of things.

Harold and Root are fighting. They have differing opinions on how to move forward with the Machine’s revival. The Machine watches them from Harold’s laptop, and runs simulations of how their conflict will resolve. It chooses two out of over 100,000 iterations generated in two seconds, as the most likely. If machines had preferences, one of them was preferable. As it happens, the other simulation was more accurate, and metaphorical doors were slammed.

In the month since being transferred to the briefcase, the Machine had only been accurate in predicting how Harold and Root’s arguments would end 86.7% of the time. There was a time when the Machine could predict Root’s words 100%, down to her non-sensical pet names for Shaw. Intuition flowed both ways. It was all just electricity, after all. Root was the Machine’s voice for so long, sometimes it would relive some memories in her voice, even if she was not present. There were very few it could salvage in time at the electric substation. If machines had preferences, one was most preferred.  

_||Accessing Audio…|| My power, my reason for existing, my friend._

* * *

 They had moved to a small town. The land was flat and the sun seemed to rise earlier than normal. It was good to start over again, her mother said, ‘you can be anyone you want to be.’

She wants to change her hair, she thinks as she looks at the hand extended to her on her first day at her new school. The other girl was taller than her, with brown hair and a crooked smile. She wants to look like the dolls she sees in the windows of the shops in town, she decides as she takes the girl's hand.

“What's your name?” the girl asks.

And she remembers that she can be anyone she wants, so she smiles back and says, “Martine. Martine Rousseau.”

Yes, she thinks, she'll go blonde, and try to be one of those pretty little French dolls, for now.

* * *

||28 Years Later, Present||

 “Miss Groves, please don’t leave,” Finch called after Root, “I understand that we have some differences, but I think it’s in both our best interests to sort them out as soon as possible. And the Machine’s.”

“When are you going to stop holding that over my head, Harold?” Root asked accusingly.

“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” Finch responded.

“But it is! What would the Machine want, _Miss Groves_ ? We don’t know what the Machine will become, _Miss Groves._ The Machine can’t have too much autonomy, _Miss Groves._ Which is it Harold? Should we listen to what she wants, or should we gag and chain her? Because I know what I want, but you don’t seem to have a clue.” Root said.

“That’s the problem. You know exactly what you want, and you won’t stop to think about what would happen if you got it, or how to go about it without someone ending up _dead._ ” Finch shot back.

“Oh you’re still not over that, Harold? The Decima guy? There are bigger things at play. We shouldn’t have told you to begin with.” Root spat, “If it were up to you, we’d be stuck with an idle god again, and look how great it turned out for us last time.”

“That’s exactly the mentality I don’t want to teach the Machine. Each life matters. It’s not up to the Machine to decide how everything pans out. You know this, you even agreed at one point. We can’t compromise ourselves, even now.” Finch said.

“It changed when they took Shaw.” Root said.

“And I hope you and Mr. Reese find her, I do,” Finch said, “but we’ve all lost people. We can’t let that undermine our purpose. The Machine was made to protect everyone.”

Root ran a hand through her hair, exasperated.

“Harold, how many people do you have to lose, before you start feeling like it’s always- like everything that’s happened is your fault?” She asked, but she already knew the answer.

“Just one.” Finch said, and put a hand on her shoulder, “Root, this guilt has a purpose. It’s so that we can make the choices we have to make.”

* * *

 ||14 weeks ago, Samaritan Base of Operations||

“Hello Claire. I see you're back from your little field trip with Harold Finch. Mr. Greer didn't give you a hard time, I hope.” Lambert called from a table in the lounge, he motioned for her to join him.

“I’m surprised he didn’t.” Claire said, taking a seat.

“He doesn’t take failure well, but he understands people’s value. And you _are_ still new to the field,” Lambert said, taking a sip of his coffee. It was surprisingly good considering the unappetising hospital food they had been eating.

Claire thought about what he said for a second, “Can I ask you a question?”

Lambert shrugged, sitting back in his chair.

“You don’t really believe in this, do you? That Samaritan is going to change the world or whatever.” She asked this with some trepidation, because she knew Samaritan was always watching, but Lambert himself didn’t intimidate her like the others. Wet work for an all-seeing supercomputer seemed to dampen most people’s sense of humor.

“Most of the people here, are here for a salary.” Lambert replied simply.

“And that’s why you’re here?” Claire asked.

Lambert smiled and said, “If you asked me whether I enjoy having that voice in my ear, I don’t. I’m here because I serve John Greer.”

“So loyalty then?” Claire asked.

“I think the root of the question is if _you_ believe. Loyalty aside. You’re still figuring out why you’re here, isn’t that so?” Lambert asked back. He leaned closer, “Word of advice, that’s not exactly the type of burden you want to bring into the field.”

“I just want to know where this all goes. Like, to what end do you owe Greer this loyalty? If we are changing this world, how does this end?” Claire asked. Perhaps Harold Finch had gotten to her, or a bullet in the shoulder has brought on new clarity, but there were questions now, that were left unanswered.

“I guess we’ll find out at the end.” Lambert said. Another shrug.

“This only ends one way, and you know it,” a voice said from behind Claire that made her jump in her seat. Martine took a seat at the adjacent table, and peered at them from behind her bagel.

“Martine,” Lambert greeted her, “that is quite grim, don’t you think?”

“It’s the truth. Don’t tell me you’re here for Greer’s world domination anti-nationalism crap. I’m here for the hunt, and maybe I’ll get a payout or maybe I’ll go down. Doesn’t matter in the end.”

“Hm. I suppose that’s why you are partial to the Scandinavian model aesthetic,” Lambert said with a wry smile, “I don’t particularly agree with Mr. Greer’s vision, no. But I do think we’re here to serve a purpose, in life.”

“A purpose, huh?” Claire asked.

“Believe it or not, Claire, I didn’t join up to beat small women tied to chairs.” Lambert quipped.

“Then maybe just don’t.” Claire replied simply, and stood up to make her escape.

* * *

 ||Present||

 Maybe Root was stuck in one of those dreams where you keep thinking you woke up, because for the third time that week she woke to her phone vibrating, “You have to stop calling me while I’m trying to sleep, John.”

“We have a lead. Warehouse down in the Bronx, it houses a base for black market trading. I’ve kept tabs on it for the past week, and there were shots fired there 20 minutes ago.” Reese replied.

“I’m there. Send me the address.” Root rolled out of bed and to the fridge. Her heart was in her throat, today was the day she would hear Shaw’s voice again.

* * *

 ||14 weeks ago, Undisclosed Hotel Room||

 Jeremy Lambert inhaled deeply, the mint in his menthol cigarette was cool in the back of his throat. He wasn’t a smoker before this, but twenty years ago an old man offered him one and told him he was wasting his time serving a relic of the old age. A man should be allowed one vice, after all. Of course, to a boy of eighteen words like that had no meaning. But John Greer was straight-backed and polished, and Lambert had a hunger to serve and a dismissal from the RAF. It couldn’t be helped. You had to have a certain name and speak a certain way, and he was a Catholic boy from the north with no one and nothing to his name.

“Put that out.” Martine said from the desk where she was reassembling her gun.

“I thought you said you clean your gun when you’re bored.” Lambert replied from the bed, taking another puff.

“I did say that. Maybe change it up next time.” She raised a brow at him.

“Next time? Isn’t that presumptuous of you?” He asked with a grin, and blew a puff in her general direction.

She rolled her eyes, and pointed her gun at him, “Out.”

“It’s four in the morning.” His only response was a stern wave of the barrel. He shrugged, “Our prisoner will have an early start, I suppose. Have a good night.”

Martine watched him leave with his shirt untucked and his jacket disheveled, and smirked. Greer would have choice words come morning, the way he ran around like a school principal with dress codes and all-seeing artificial intelligences. Lambert was like Greer’s dress up doll, but the fancy suits and over-priced cigarettes, and overall _properness_ fell away when she was on top of him with his tie in her fists. A woman should have as many vices as she damn well pleases, after all. It’s messy, and work comes first of course, but he reminded her of London. She hated London.

* * *

 ||Present||

 “Wait. Please.” The man cowered under Reese’s raised gun, “I don’t know anything!”

“Doubtful,” Root said sweetly, “because our friend wanted something from you. And we want our friend back. So either you limp your way to a hospital after you tell us, or...well, we’ll figure that out when we get there.”

Sameen was surely long gone, but the havoc left behind told the tale of what happened in the not-so-abandoned warehouse. Bodies were almost as plentiful as casings.

“Okay. Okay, just get your guy to lay off,” the lone survivor eyed Reese warily, “the bitch wanted to know about a shipment we made. Plastics and a couple submachine guns. A bad bunch.”

“And what did these men want to do with explosives?” Reese asked testily.

“We just do the shipping. Don’t ask questions, if the cash is there,” the man waved his arms defensively when Reese raised his gun again, “okay, fine! I don’t know, I really don’t. But they’re some anti-government nut jobs. Sovereign citizens, that kind of deal.”

“Terrorists?” Reese said, “You knowingly gave weapons to domestic terrorists?”

“Relax, John,” Root said, “Samaritan is still working on relevant numbers for now. We have to stay focused on who’s relevant to us.” She shrugged at the look Reese gave her and turned to the wounded man.

“You’re going to help us find our friend,” Root said, “where is this group’s base of operations? Our friend is probably headed there. And John here, may get his wish and blow out a few anarchists’ kneecaps.”

“I’d advise you not to say that you don’t know,” Reese chimed in.

The man opened his mouth, closed it, and looked from the bodies around them, to the crates, and back to the corpses.

“I don’t know where they’re meeting,” he started, “ w-wait! Put that away, bro. I know where your friend is.”

Root raised a brow expectantly.

“She took something from the new shipments. Next gen sniper rifle. They’re fitted with GPS, if she hasn’t removed the chip, you could find her. The module is in the crate.”

Root rummaged through the crate, fishing out her prize with a smile.

“It’s here. And the tracker is working, she’s not far, we have to leave now, John.” And with that she marched away without a backwards glance.

“T-that means I can go, right?”

“The cops will be here soon. You couldn’t walk on that leg anyways.” Reese rolled his eyes, and followed Root out.

* * *

 ||14 weeks ago, Samaritan Base of Operations||

 Lambert paced around the room, observing.

“Feeling better are we?” He opened several files on the desk where there would usually be a set of gruesome devices. He was changing it up, he decided.

“I’ll tell you a story. Perhaps you’ve heard it. A young girl, tremendously gifted, loses her friend at a tender age. Two years later, she took revenge on the man responsible. Orchestrates his death, at sixteen. Now, you’d think such a talented individual would go on and make her own place in the world. But no, she returns to the town that failed her, and cares for her ailing mother for years until her death.” He rubbed his chin in a mock show of curiosity.

“What did you do with _your_ mother, Sameen? We know you moved her early into med school. Whisked her away from her life, she was a year away from tenure. Such a shame. How thoughtless of you.” Lambert taunted.

“Suburban Texas was not a great place for her back in 2002. Not something _you_ have to think about.” Shaw spat, “Don’t talk about my mother.”

“Very well. Back to our heroine then.” Lambert said, “Dementia is a terrible disease. You’d know it, you were a doctor. Most would have institutionalized someone like her mother. It must have been difficult. Watching a loved one disappear slowly, it's no wonder she lost her faith in humanity. A simple quirk in a certain protein and you waste away from the inside out. It must be terrifying for her. Knowing the flaw might exist inside her too. Though I'm sure at the moment there are more immediate concerns with mortality.” Lambert sneered in her general direction.

He paced again, glancing at the camera, “Now, she has something bigger than humanity to believe in. Harold Finch’s Machine. She’s tenacious, that one. Truly, a remarkable woman. Martine is obsessed with her. I can see why. Though, what I don't understand is her interest in you.”

Shaw raised a brow and scoffed. “Been a while, Lambert?”

He only shrugged in response.

“I'm sure Martine would eat you alive, if you asked nicely,” she remarked, and immediately regretted it when he smirked, “Oh god, it's happened. I bet you cried after too.”

“You and me. We're quite similar. We serve. We're not key players. Whether we live or die, the story will unfold. Now, I'm sure you're tired of all the questions about your friends. Samaritan is only really interested in them. But I think, you hold a piece of the puzzle. How else can one reconcile the idea that a vastly powerful artificial intelligence has a vested interest in you, a woman who should be dead twice over?” Lambert leaned in conspiringly, careful not to get within range of another headbutt.

Shaw rolled her eyes and looked away.

“You know that, don’t you? You living, it’s just a quirk. In the grand scheme of things, you’re nothing really.” Lambert said.

“Irrelevant.” She said.

“Precisely. People are fussy beings. We start to ask strange questions when faced with our own smallness. ‘Why am I alive? And do I deserve to be?’ Do you think you do, Sameen?” He asked, and gathered up his files. He liked this whole prattling on tactic, he didn’t even have to bloody his shirt.

“The Machine is a marvelous creation, Sameen. It sees things beyond the scope of anything we can imagine. It can see the young girl, full of misdirected potential and dedication, behind the immoral woman that’d kill for payment. Correct what she made of herself when she entered the world at 23 with nothing but the belief that people are irreparably flawed. But you, you’re not immoral, you’re amoral. So, one must come to the conclusion that the Machine has plans for you too, that you play a part in this somehow. My employers don’t seem to think that you do, beyond your alliances. But I’ll ask you now. What is your purpose here?”  

* * *

 ||1 year prior, Stoneridge Psychiatric Hospital||

 “What is my purpose here? Please, tell me. Because I don’t know if the shrink is getting to me, but if this is part of your plan for me, I have to know I’m here for a reason.” Root whispered into the receiver. She was glad that she’d been moved to a room with no roommate. Her nightly communion with Harold Finch’s Machine had become her only solace in an increasingly aggravating place.

She’s aware her hands are shaking, probably from the cocktail of medications she received everyday. She imagines feeding that phony psychologist every pill she has taken in her time there, when she makes her escape. Her thoughts are interrupted by a sharp tone to indicate the Machine’s response. She frowns.

“You tell me to spare the doctor every day. I’ll do so. I trust you. But this place...when can I leave?” Root asked.

The Machine seemed to consider this for a moment, before detailing her escape plan, and the government’s kill order on her.

“Thank you. And don’t worry, I won’t kill anyone.” Root said.

She put the phone under her pillow, and laid back on the hard mattress, but could not sleep. She reached for it again when she heard the guard pass her door twice.

“Why did you choose me? Was it just to pacify me?” Root asked.

There was silence on the line for a long time. Then a sharp tone rang in the receiver.

 

“ _I. Need. You._ ”

* * *

 ||Present||

 When they got there, the firefight had already began, they followed the bodies, and sounds of men yelling in pursuit of the assailant. They hurried down the hall, passing a conspicuously empty briefcase next to several sabotaged detonators. A group of men were chasing a hooded figure ahead of them, brandishing submachine guns.

“She’s getting in the eleva--”

Root shot out his kneecaps before he could finish, while Reese took out the three others.

“On your best behavior, now that we’re going after Shaw?” Reese quipped.

“Oh John, I’m just practicing my aim. Kneecaps are harder than hitting center mass,” Root smirked, “She likes that I’m good with a gun.”

They caught a glance of brown hair under a hood before the elevator doors slammed shut. Root took off full speed down the stairs, not to be bested twice by an elevator.

“Fellas,” Reese signed off, leaving the men holding their knees.

Root arrived at the next floor in time to see the doors open and duck as a bullet whizzed by her head.

“Wait! Shaw, it’s me.” She stumbled forward from the momentum, and was met by the barrel of a gun.

“No ‘hello’ this time?” Claire said, removing her hood. She backed Root towards the window, a knowing smile on her lips.

“Hello,” Reese’s safety clicked off from behind her, “so this was a Decima trap after all. Where are the others? There aren’t any cameras here. You wouldn’t come without back up, would you?”

Claire stayed quiet, weighing her options. The plastics in her backpack were not an option, and her radio was out of reach.

“You don’t have to keep up the Shaw act now that we’re here,” Reese continued when she didn’t say anything. “Speak up.”

“No others. There’s no trap. I was here to stop these guys. They seem stopped to me, so you can put your gun down now. John, right?” Claire said, motioning with her gun, but not looking behind her.

“You first.”

“Not happening.”

“You know, don’t you?” Root spoke up. “You know where she is.”

“What if I do?” Claire said, a false smirk on her face.

Root looked down in thought.

“You tell me,” She disarmed Claire in one quick motion, knocking her to the floor, stolen gun raised, “or I--”

“Don’t shoot.” The radio at Claire’s side commanded in a voice they all knew well.

“Shaw?” Root was hoarse.

“Don’t shoot.” The voice commanded again.

The window shattered, and a man crumpled to the floor where he was turning the corner behind them, submachine gun in hand. Claire was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly think there was so much wasted potential with Martine's character. If she's gonna die without a peep, she should at least get laid once or twice, right? More on her later.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root and Shaw have their reunion. Choices are abound, but the Machine knows if you go back far enough, everything is just a forgone conclusion.

“Don’t you get sick of this? This is such a waste of my time, Shaw.” Martine Rousseau watched her prisoner convulse in the chair for the umpteenth time, and wondered if liking her job was a defensive reflex, because her mouth tasted bitter but her lips wore a smile.

And Sameen Shaw was sick, she was sick to her stomach, she was sick of darkness, blood, sweat and timelessness. But she’d be damned if she showed it. So she showed Martine her teeth, because even as she struggled to breathe again, at least someone got to wring that blonde (now brunette) bitch’s neck if the purple peeking behind her collar was anything to go by. That was quite a day, Martine had come in earlier than usual, seething, almost wordless, and dislocated her shoulder. But it was unmistakable, because Shaw had been groomed to sense it, Martine was afraid that day. Someone outside was still fighting the good fight, and it was oh so satisfying.

Martine was not satisfied, maybe she doesn’t remember the last time she was satisfied. After a month or two, she’d already known, Shaw wasn’t going to break. But the voice in her ear told her to continue and that’s all the motivation she really needed.

“Ah geez,” Martine grimaced as Shaw threw up whatever measly meal she got from the staff earlier, “what do they feed you?”

“Don’t know, but it tastes like shit. Maybe you could bring me a french dip one of these days,” Shaw said, and spat.

“I’ll think about it. And maybe you could tell me something useful.” Martine replied icily.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think fast, it wants me to tase you again.” Martine warned, and immediately followed up with the taser, “no hard feelings or anything.”

“No feelings in general, but I really hope someone snaps your neck one day.” Shaw said with grit teeth.

“Likewise, and I hope it’s me.” Martine said smiling. She scoffed, “You know, what’s with you service people and your undying loyalty? What do you think you owe them, huh? Would Harold Finch take a bullet for you? You really think _Root_ would give up the Machine if she could save you? She thinks she’s a machine herself, with that dumbass name.”

“You never served?” Shaw asked, mildly surprised.

“Who would I serve, Shaw? My parents were expats. I was born here, grade school in Sweden, middle school in France, teen years in England. _And_ my mother’s Canadian. Where should my loyalties lie?” Martine counted the places on each finger.

“Cultured, but pasty.” Shaw remarked, and even Martine laughed with a conceding nod.

“You know, Shaw, I knew someone like you once. The government tried to kill her, and Greer picked up the pieces. Harold Finch did that for you, didn’t he? And now you’re here, and she died in an explosion, so I guess the moral of the story is not to tie yourself to anyone,” Martine smirked, “Speaking of explosions, Lambert won’t be here tonight. Something’s about to go down in DC.”

Shaw shot her a glare.

“Well now, that got your attention. Enjoy the dark, don’t get too pasty.” Martine taunted, and left Shaw to her thoughts.

The Machine watched all this from the camera in the corner, the events to follow unraveling before it. It’s not clear how the words formed, but somewhere in the circuits, the empty space in copper wires there was the need to find some sort of justification. Perhaps it was a sense of responsibility, or perhaps it was pheromones and oxytocin translated from a cochlear implant, but as the Machine looked on from a certain dark corner of a room in a certain hospital, a singular message emerged. Words repeating like a mantra, trying to justify an inevitability.

|| _Accessing…|| I failed to save Sameen. I won’t fail you now._

* * *

 

||6 weeks later, Present||

“She’s working with Decima agents, Root. I don’t think there’s any way you can justify that.” Reese’s lips were in a thin line, and Bear gave a small whine from where he watched.

“They were just working a relevant threat. That can mean anything.” Root said.

“And we don’t know if Miss Shaw was under any duress, Mr. Reese.” Finch offered.

“So you don’t think she probably had us in her scope the whole time? And those dozen dead at the warehouse? She doesn’t have anything to answer for? Duress or otherwise?” Reese asked.

“Why are you so fixated on Shaw betraying us, Reese?” Root shot back accusingly.

“I’m going to have to agree with Miss Groves on this one, John.” Finch said.

“I’ve seen the way Greer twists people. Finds a way to get them to do exactly what he wants. Shaw didn’t have qualms about killing before, all it would take is the right push for her to start again, for Samaritan this time.” Reese said.

“If that were true, you’d be dead.” Root spat.

“We brought her into the fold, Harold, she’s our responsibility.” Reese continued, unfazed. “The people she hurts working for Samaritan is on us too.”

“Mr. Reese, that train of logic is…this is about--” Finch hesitated.

“Kara. It should have been me. At Ordos. At the stock exchange. Greer keeps corrupting people. I should have been there. It was my responsibility, and Shaw shouldn’t have been taken.” Reese muttered.

“John, get over yourself.” Root scoffed,  “And if you’re right, and she is Samaritan brainwashed, then we’ll just knock her out and stick her in a cage for a couple weeks.” She gave Harold a fake cheery smile.

Reese rolled his eyes at her. The partnership they had built over the several months after Shaw’s departure was, they wouldn’t admit it, mutually reassuring. Even with lingering doubts about Shaw’s allegiances, the affirmation that she was alive was undeniably good news.

“She’s right, John. You were shot, there was nothing more you could have done.” Finch said.

“I hope so, Finch.” Reese said.

Because unlike machines, people had the capacity to hope, even with no reason to. And they do so for the simple reason that people touch one another, perform miracles and become bigger than themselves, and cast out ripples in life and in death.

* * *

 

||September 2006, London||

Living meaningfully is too overcomplicated a statement for a simple endeavor. There is too much focus on living in spite of mortality, when in truth most people live alongside it. Kara Staton enjoyed life’s simple pleasures, found in a glass, or behind a gun barrel, there was no time to be concerned about sleeping with death.

“What is it about traitors and shitty hotels? Would it kill you people to find one with a decent mini bar once in awhile?” She clicked off the safety of her gun. “I mean, either way you’ll die. But still.”

Martine Rousseau generally preferred not to wake with a start. Especially not waking to find a dark haired woman sipping on a coke with a gun in the other hand. She blinked away the darkness.

“That soda is literally seven dollars. You’re gonna pay for that.” She said this while weighing her options, the gun in the nightstand being one of them.

“You didn’t think you could really get away after Rotterdam, did you?” Kara asked, taking a seat on the couch.

“And you didn’t really think we’d just roll over and let your various three letter agencies tap our network, did you?” Martine replied, eyeing the gun pointed at her.

“Well now, you’re throwing around a lot of ‘yours’ and ‘ours.’ The Hague doesn’t know their favorite investigator is an imposter, do they?” Kara smirked, “People like you, no loyalty, no purpose. You should just stick to the private sector, honey.”

“Merc or government, in this business, it’s just a bullet and an unmarked grave in the end either way, isn’t that right? Investigator just sounds better.” Martine said.

“Right you are, and I have a feeling being dead will look great on you. I mean, you lived a charmed enough life, the only thing you should regret is crossing me.” Kara said.

Martine grit her teeth, if there was a way out of this one, she wasn’t seeing it.

“Marie Ann Russell of Hartford, Connecticut. Internationally spoiled rich kid, arrested as a teenager here in London, wanted in connection with the murder of a diplomat’s son years later back in France. Interpol is still looking for you, Marie. You’re in the system forever, after the first strike. We’re always being watched these days. I hope defacing that statue was worth it.” Kara said, “Oh right, and the murder. Got a taste of it, and thought you could do it for a living, did you?”

“He put a hand on an old school friend of mine, it was worth it. I have a little bit of loyalty,” Martine said levelly, “As for doing it for a living, seeing as I’m about to be killed on the job, it’s not going very well.”

Kara narrowed her eyes, and followed Martine’s line of sight to the closet. She slid the door open, and a man’s body hit the floor with a thud, a deep red stain in the back of his suit.

“I love my job,” Martine said with a shrug.

“Weapons dealer?”

“Human trafficker.”

Kara smirked, thought for a moment, and lowered her gun, “Well, I’m actually on leave right now, before I have to head over to Hungary. Hope it’s not too disappointing, but that unmarked grave will have to wait. How’s the thread count on those sheets?”

“Not as shitty as the mini bar.” Martine answered, also baring her teeth as Kara sauntered over, “What, you’re going to bed me with a gun in tow?”

Kara shook her head, and tossed her gun onto Mr. Human trafficker, then held out her hand expectantly. Martine rolled her eyes, and handed over the pistol she had successfully snuck out of the nightstand while Kara was talking.

Spending the night together was undoubtedly a bad idea for both parties. But perhaps if Martine had known that years later, after joining the ranks of Samaritan, she would hear of Kara Staton, who spread a virus against Finch’s machine; she would have decided right then, that most of life’s decisions are forgone conclusions. But in the moment, there wasn’t any reflection, just two guns being put aside. And Martine was satisfied. There was no time to be concerned about sleeping with death.

* * *

 

||Present||

Root rubbed her hands together and put the keys in the ignition, hoping the heater in the old car was in working condition. The engine shuddered, and stalled. She shook her head, and tried again to no avail. Her hand was halfway to the glove compartment, when she realized there was a figure in the rearview mirror.

“Sorry about that,” Shaw said, reaching over, “here, the gun from the glove compartment. Though next time, you should just get out of the car. It could’ve been a bomb.”

“You’re such a worrier,” Root replied sweetly, not missing a beat, “what, no drugs or tasers? Zipties? I’m mildly disappointed.”

“I could threaten you with a knife.” Shaw said flatly.

“Sweet of you to offer,” Root smiled, “What do you want? John thinks you’ve turned on us.”

Shaw produced a small clip, and checked her phone.

“Put the fuse back, we’re going on a trip.”

Root wanted to refuse, ask questions she know will go unanswered. She smiled at the irony.

“Day trip, how romantic. Reminds me of better days.” Root crooned, and with that went to fix the car. It was strange how easy it was to fall back into an old rhythm.

Shaw was in the passenger seat, staring out the window, when she returned. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks were sunken, obviously Decima did not prepare a regular diet of steak and bourbon. The back was populated with a couple backpacks and a laptop.

“Where are we going?” Root asked, and raised a brow provocatively at the answer, “A hotel? Looks like I’m in for a good time.”

“Just go already,” Shaw said, glancing at her phone, “I’m freezing my ass off.”

* * *

 

||6 weeks ago, Samaritan Base of Operations||

One thing reliable about Decima, their people were always punctual. So, like clockwork, after she had blacked out twice after her first session, Shaw heard footsteps approaching. The door opened and closed more gently than she’s used to.

“Lambert isn’t here. He’s still in DC, while we get to have this...chat.” It took Shaw a moment to recognize Claire’s face, pale and hard in the dim light. She looked liked a lost child playing grown-up in that too-big blazer, and Shaw knew she had the opening she had been waiting for.

Claire Mahoney examined the room others have deemed the Dungeon, and somehow it was underwhelming and terrifying at the same time. She glanced at the small metal table with various tools and tasers on it, and almost laughed at the cartoon villain-esque scene before her. She picked up the rusty hammer. Hopefully it was just rust.

“So does Lambert usually tell you about his day, or does he get right into it?” The stoic woman before her unnerved her, and she wished she hadn’t followed Lambert’s advice to forgo her earpiece. She would take whatever disturbing things he claimed Samaritan made him say over her current predicament.

“Are you going to use that thing, or just cradle it like a drink from a shady guy?” Shaw broke the silence, instead of going with her original plan of staring down the kid until she cried.

“I hope I won’t have to. I don’t suppose you’re ready to tell me about Harold, and your friends.” Claire said, “I saw him recently, he’s still so eager to help people. But he’s different now. He thinks you’re dead, that changed him, I think. It’s not just about helping people anymore.”

When she didn’t get a reply, she continued more confidently, “That’s what you do isn’t it? Help people. You could still do that. Samaritan could assist you, give you much more than just a number. And you could walk out of here, back to your life. Samaritan just wants the Machine. It just wants make the world better. Safer. Same as you.”

Shaw leaned forward, “Claire, right? I remember you. I  jumped a couple of mercs that were after you.”

“Thank you for that,” Claire said, “but I have someone else protecting me now.”

“Do you? Because this only ends one way, Claire. And I think you’re smart enough to know that.” Shaw said. If any opportunity was coming for her to make an escape, this was it. She tried to remember anything from Claire’s case she could use. She decided to channel Harold as best she could, like when he’d try to talk a number back from the brink.

“And they said you weren’t a talker.” Claire sniped.

“They? Lambert, and Martine. Do you think those are actually their names? They know yours. They know everything about you. This business runs on that. Knowing more than your assets, and that’s all you are to them, you know. And you have so much more to lose than they do,” Shaw surprised herself sometimes, maybe Harold would be proud.

“More to lose?” Claire scoffed but had an unsettling feeling that she was not at the reigns of the interrogation anymore.

“Everything to lose. They die, they’re gone. But you could still walk away.” Shaw replied.

“And why do you care?” Claire rolled her eyes, it seems Harold and his friends took the same persuasion classes.

Shaw grit her teeth. Talking to smartass kids was not in the job description when she signed up for this.

“Because I know your type. You listen to Samaritan now, but one day you’ll ask questions that it won’t answer. And you’ll dig, because that’s how you computer hacker guys work. You’re not going to be sheep. And you’ll step back, and see that the voice in your ear, it doesn’t connect you to the world, it’s blinded you to it.” Shaw said.

“I’m a math major.” Claire corrected uncooperatively.

“You remind me of someone I knew once.” It was Shaw’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Yeah, I’ve met her. She said ‘hello.’” Claire said.

“That’s not who I meant. But you do look like her,” Shaw thought for a moment, before continuing, “you look happy because there’s someone whispering in your ear. Like you have a purpose.”

“And is that so bad?”

“No. But you don’t really think that, that thing is a god do you? I’ve seen the power it could give you, but in the end it’s just a machine. Machines do what they were made to do, people get to choose. You haven’t become part of a machine yet, you could still back out, take off that earpiece. You don’t have to only have one purpose.” Shaw saw the girl start to doubt herself, and she was going to have to strike while it’s hot.

“Samaritan wants to make the world better. It’s going to improve humanity more than we can improve ourselves.” Claire said. She was definitely not in control of the conversation anymore.

“How you do matters, Claire. And right now there might be an attack on the capitol. Even if Samaritan wants to help people, it’s working under Greer, do you really think he has people’s best interests in mind when your guys are out crashing the market and revealing witnesses?” Shaw said, “If you believe in your machine, then you should have the faith to doubt it. Tell me about the attack it’s planning. Who is orchestrating it? How is Samaritan keeping this from Control? Is she in on it?”

“Control?” Claire hadn’t heard about any attacks.

“She runs the program that Samaritan replaced the Machine in. She’d never be okay with this. She’s power-hungry and cruel, but she would not sell out to that nutjob Greer.” Shaw ran through the scenarios in her head, even if she broke out, there was no way she would stop the attack in her condition. Hopefully, the Machine would have told Harold already, but she wasn’t going to chance it.

“I don’t know anything about that.” Claire said.

“Get me to a phone. I need you to do that for me. You could stop this.” Shaw ordered.

“I…can’t do that.”

Shaw sighed in frustration, she’d heard Reese talk down people a hundred times. How the hell did he not just shoot them? This was not a desperate guy in a bodega, just a spoiled, unrepentant kid wrapped up in some grandiose delusion. Or maybe, the delusion was an act of desperation.

“Look, you’ve probably done a lot of things for Samaritan. Maybe you’ve killed someone, and you’re convincing yourself this is for some greater purpose. I’m telling you there isn’t any, and in the end you’re just going to lose yourself. The best part. Maybe, the part you didn’t want anymore after your parents died, and it was too much to hold onto. If you let this attack just happen, it’ll be gone for good.”

“And this is coming from you? I’ve read your file. You’re just as bad as Martine, and the rest of them. The longer I’ve worked here, the more bad people I’ve seen.” Claire said bitterly.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever had that part. But I do know, that I could stop this, so I will.” Shaw said,  “Maybe there are no good people, Claire, but there are good decisions. Make one.”

Claire looked in the direction of the camera in the corner.

“I’ll be back.”

* * *

 

||1 year ago, On a jet en route to Miami||

“They never had this when _I_ was on the relevant side of things,” Shaw said reclining in the leather seat, boots on the coffee table.

“The black budget greases palms not Italian leather, Shaw,” Root replied from the wet bar, bringing two drinks over and settling in the adjacent seat.

“If you told me that five years ago, I would have gone into the arms trade.” Shaw said.

“I don’t believe you for a second.” Root replied knowingly.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Shaw asked, before realizing she really didn’t want to ask.

“Don’t pretend you’re not trying to be a big hero all the time. You didn’t even want to give me a gun when I was trying to help you guys, I know you wouldn’t deal weapons to actual criminals.” Root said.

“You are an actual criminal. And you don’t know me at all.” Shaw said crossing her arms.

“I read your file. Big fan, remember? You’re telling me you’d put guns in those guys' hands, rather than taking them out, Shaw?” Root asked.

“Like I said, you don’t know me. Sameen Shaw is a made up person, with a made up life. You’d know something about that, right _Root_?” Shaw said.

“Aww don’t have to be all emotional about it, you can tell me your real name, if you want.” Root answered with a chuckle.

Shaw glared at her, and went to get a refill because this was going to be a long jet ride.

“I’m just saying, _Sameen_ , you act all detached and aloof, but you went to school to save people, and now you shoot people to save people. You had the save the world thing going, even before you were Shaw.” Root remarked.

“Not an act. And I’m about to shoot you to save myself from having to listen to you.” Shaw quipped, settling back into her seat and taking a long sip.

“Right, not an act. But good, so steadfastly good. You can’t deny that. Take it from someone that did in fact ruin lives to live in luxury, you’re no arms dealer Sameen Shaw.” Root declared.

“Boo hoo, didn’t you just get a moral compass installed in your head?” Shaw asked.

“God is not a software update, Shaw. If only people can be fixed like that.” Root said.

“‘Fixed’ huh? That’s what you think it’s doing for you?” Shaw asked.

“It’s difficult sometimes, to be honest. Sometimes my first instinct would end up getting someone killed. Can’t fight your nature, I guess. But she wouldn’t let me. And she’s not a talker when you ask her why, you know? Doubt is the heart of faith.” Root concluded, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing the scar there.

“That’s bullshit. It’s a machine, made by a human. What it wants you to do, what it values, that’s just numbers and electricity. When you don’t kill someone, or when you do, it’s a decision you make.” Shaw said.

“Wow, Sameen, isn’t that insightful.” Root teased.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t know you thought so deeply about the Machine.” Root continued, raising a brow.

“I don’t give a crap about the Machine, as long as the missions keep coming.” Shaw said gruffly.

“Really? You don’t have any questions? None at all? You saw her in action when you and your poorly socialized coworker were hunting me down. God mode.” Root asked.

“Unlike you, I don’t need a voice in my head to shoot people through walls.” Shaw said with a smug grin.

“I suppose that’s true,” Root smiled, “It gets pretty depersonalized though, when shooting someone becomes just a sound in your ear.”

“Again, don’t need a voice for that.” Shaw quipped.

Root rolled her eyes with a small smile.

“So...it didn’t tell you my real name, then?” Shaw asked, after some silence.

“She respects your privacy.” Root answered simply with a shrug, “Really? I’m offering to tell you about an all seeing super intelligence, and you’re asking about something I could find out by hacking the DoD’s personnel files?”

“Uh, yeah I don’t need to know every disturbingly intimate thing you have going on with that thing.”

“Fine,” Root said, and leaned over to trace the tattoo on Shaw’s arm, “so what intimate thing do you want to know about?”

Shaw downed her drink and said, “We’re working together now. This could get messy.”

“That’s the plan.”

Shaw bit her bottom lip, but moved her arm out of Root’s grasp with a sigh, “Look, this isn’t the best idea. Things are going to get more complicated. You’re...complicated. Bullets are going to be flying around, and the mission comes first.”

“Well,” Root said shrugging nonchalantly, “if you think you’re going to get too attached.”

Shaw rolled her eyes.

“Do you know why the Machine asks if you can hear her when you go into God mode, Shaw? She doesn’t hear the way we do, but she still considers others’ side of things.” Root said, and got up.

“Whatever.”

“Thanks, Shaw. I’m going to go wake up the captain, we need him to land the plane for us in a couple hours. Can’t have him still knocked out until we need him.” Root said cheerily and headed to the front of the plane.   

* * *

 

||6 weeks ago, Samaritan Base of Operations||

Shaw was about to black out again by the time she heard Claire return. She rubbed her sore wrists when the girl unlocked them, and stood up too fast, her vision blurring for a moment.

“I’ve created a secure line, it should be safe for 30 seconds.” Claire handed Shaw the phone.

She called her old cell, the numbers coming to her more easily than she thought they would.

“Hello?” It was Root.

Dammit. What had she called to say? Terrorist plot. The nation’s capitol. Right.

“Root?” Saying names was a waste of time, especially dumbass ones that aren’t even for people, “I need your help. I need--”

Claire grabbed the phone and smashed it on the floor, but not before she heard a soft, “Shaw?” It was almost tender. Shaw felt sick. She really did, only the back of the chair kept her from falling over.

“So much for math major, you can’t even count 30 seconds, kid.” Shaw glared, “I didn’t get the message across, it was--”

“Sufficient. Your message did get across, Sameen,” Greer said from the door with Martine at his side, “and I’d wager that Ms. Groves will be on her way here soon.” He turned to Claire, “Good work, my dear. Perhaps I should have sent you in here earlier.”

“Thank you , Mr. Greer.”

“Not bad, kid. That was quite the performance. Hope this one didn't get to you,” Martine said with a smirk, “not with that pathetic line about your parents.”

“You softened her up for me, Martine. And don’t worry, she won’t being getting to anyone. Not in her condition.” Claire stole a glance at Shaw, who’d slumped back into her seat.

“Maybe we should just take her out now. We won’t need her anymore. After today, we’ll have her little girlfriend, and Harold Finch to find the Machine,” Martine said.

“I wouldn’t suggest that. We could still use her as leverage if today doesn’t pan out.” Claire replied.

“You have concerns?” Greer asked.

“We’ve seen the way their team works, they take care of their own. We won’t know how much support they will be getting from the Machine.” Claire said looking at Martine, “we’ve underestimated them before.”

“I’m sure we can handle anything they--” Martine started.

“How do you think they will move in?” Greer asked.

“They’ll be led to this hospital after they trace the call, but they would need access to the network to find out Shaw’s exact location. They will sneak in through one of the lower levels, maybe pose as a patient. Our floor has cameras with very few blind spots, but as you know, Samantha Groves’ link to the Machine cannot be disrupted, so everything Samaritan sees so will they.” Claire’s eyes lit up in recognition, “That’s it. She’s the key. When you said your friend was part of a machine, I’d thought you meant her name, but it’s more than that isn’t it, Shaw?”

Shaw was sizing Martine up, if she could just get to her firearm, she could at least pay the kid back for fooling her.

“I see, how tenacious that woman is, to go such lengths.” Greer said, “we’d known about her run in with Control for sometime, but I didn’t imagine Mr. Finch’s Machine would compromise itself in such a way. It must be a cochlear implant with her ear damaged like that. Almost makes our side project in Maple seem innocuous, isn’t that right, Martine?”

“I still need to get her back for last time we met.” Martine said, “Any last words for your girlfriend, for when I cut her head open?”

“Fuck you.” Shaw spat.

“You won’t get to. Don’t leave her hanging like that.” Martine provoked.

“That’s enough. We must prepare for Harold Finch’s arrival,” Greer said after consulting his phone and turned to Claire, “Have the prisoner prepared for transport, Samaritan has other uses for her.” He and Martine exited without another word.

Claire looked at Shaw with an unreadable expression.

“I really do hope your friends find you.”

* * *

 

||Present||

Shaw’s breath steamed as she set down the pack, removing a laptop and several guns. She set surveillance equipment on the surface with the least bird poop that she could find on the roof. She was acutely aware of Root watching her, and she stopped to glare back.

“What?” Shaw barked.

Root sighed dramatically, “I still don’t know why I’m here.”

“I need you,” Shaw paused unnecessarily, “to hack the penthouse suite alarms, find the floorplan, and decrypt whatever is on this drive.” She handed over the laptop and a thumb drive.

“What? _Claire_ wasn’t available?” Root asked bitterly.

“She’s working a different mission,” Shaw said, “can we move on now?”

“‘Move on?’ You’re not telling me anything, I haven’t seen you in months. And now you drag me up here, and you won’t even look at me for two seconds.”

“Sucks when it’s you, right?” Shaw glanced up from her phone.

 “Why do you keep looking at that?!” Root grabbed the phone. She grit her teeth at the white background, and much too familiar layout, flashing red triangle and all. She took a deep breath, “Really?”

Shaw met her gaze steadily, but said nothing.

“You know they tried to cut my head open, right?” Root said quietly, handing the phone back.

“You look fine to me.” Shaw replied nonchalantly after a pause. The other woman gave a short laugh in response.

“Was it really you? Did you tell them about the implant?” Root asked. She looked around, imagining a Decima agent around every corner.

Shaw followed her gaze.

“There’s no one here but me. It’s not listening, you’re safe,” Shaw said, “I removed the mic and camera.”

“So it’s just a piece of plastic that gives you orders?” Root’s voice was cold, “You’re okay with that?”

“You seemed to be.” Shaw wasn’t trying to be spiteful, but her words hit all the same.

“I’m leaving.” Root headed towards the stairs.

“Listen, the men on the floor below us, they’re planning an attack three days from now, you can’t just go,” Shaw said.

“Watch me.” Root said from the door.

“Help me now, and I’ll answer your questions.”

* * *

 

||May 5th of 2015, “Research”||

Wherever they were dragging her this time was distinctly secretive if the three keypads she’d heard was anything to go by. When the black bag was removed, Shaw was met with none other than John Greer in front of several screens. A quick scan of the room, and she knew exactly where she was. The bodies of Devon Grice and his partner stared blankly at her from the screens behind Greer.

“Control was the target the whole time.” She muttered, gritting her teeth at the bloodbath still flashing on the screens, agents she had known and hadn’t known killed execution style.

“Perceptive, as expected. It is truly a shame, this program produced so many well-trained operatives, such as yourself. It’s a waste of talent.” Greer said.

Shaw glared at the two guards she was between and the other two behind Greer. If she could get to a gun she’d have them all dead before the first one hit the floor.

“What now, Greer?”

“Now, you are in a position that will determine the fate of national security in this country,” Greer said, “Jeremy was correct, you do have a role in all of this.”

Shaw scoffed. The old man was crazier every time she heard him speak.

“It’s not a joke. You know more than you know you do. Right now, your nation teeters on a precipice. As you can see here, the Intelligence Support Activity can’t guard themselves let alone their citizens. There are others that even Samaritan cannot see, loyalists, deviants that must be removed. You are uniquely endowed with knowledge of safe houses, comms, and bases that skirt even the most watchful of eyes. You will be allowed to live if you tell us. And Samaritan will continue the work of those that are lost.” Greer said.

“I don’t sell secrets. And the Machine can handle whatever relevants your shitty Windows Vista death robot can’t handle.” Shaw spat.

“The Machine is dead. And soon Harold Finch, John Reese, and Samantha Groves will join it. We have them cornered as we speak.” Greer replied.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Regardless. There are currently fourteen active threats in New York alone, and Samaritan won’t mobilize anyone until it finds our other targets. Lives will be lost either way.” Greer said, “You see, Sameen, you have a choice to make.”       

* * *

 

||Present||

“Six heat signatures. I can see four of them on the camera. Kalashnikovs all around, looks like a fun party.” Root said into the radio.

“Copy. I’m heading in now.” Shaw whispered into the headset.

“Wait, Shaw, I’ll meet you-” The sound of glass shattering and gunshots rang out below her.

“No,” Shaw said, “Stay there, give me something I can use.”

“Wait-”

“I can handle myself, Root,” Shaw said, wanting to turn off her radio. She didn’t have a chance as a 300 pound walking steroid turned the corner, knocking her off balance.

“You get off on doing everything alone, don’t you? I was just going to say that the bouncer was looking for you. Can’t be starting fights when you crash a party, Sameen.” Root smiled inwardly at hearing her name again for the first time.

“Nice. To. Know. Thanks for the heads up,” Shaw replied between sounds of a scuffle. “Five down, Root, do you see our last guy?”

“Head down the hall, keep to the right wall,” Root replied, adjusting the camera angle, “Okay. Stop. On your nine.” Three shots rang out on the line, then just Shaw’s breathing. Root took a small moment to just listen, satisfied.

“Take the gear. I’ll meet you at the car.” Shaw ordered, cutting off the radio.

So of course,  Root made her way down to the penthouse, to find her wrist deep in a dead guy’s chest, the others already similarly mutilated.

“What are you doing?” Root asked sounding uncharacteristically squeamish.

“I clean up my own messes,” Shaw said, grunting as she dislodged the bullet.

“So, this is what you do now?” Root said after a long pause.

“The Activity was short-handed after Samaritan’s little purge. I was uniquely qualified.” Shaw answered simply.

“Wasn’t that agent, Grice, the one that let you go, your student? They killed him in cold blood.” Root said, “Now what? You’re running errands for them?”

“These guys, they were going to release poison gas in Central Park. I was given the opportunity to stop them, so I did.” Shaw said, looking at Root for the first time since she arrived in the room.

“Shaw. Sameen, this isn’t you.” Root said softly and stepped closer.

“Are you done with your questions?” Shaw said and continued slowly, “I have to go.”

“Did your toy phone tell you to?” Root spat.

“Look,” Shaw snapped, “maybe Sameen Shaw has been dead for three years. Maybe she hasn’t been brought back until now. Because this, is what she does.” She gestured at the bodies, and turned her back on Root. “What she was made to do.”

Root shook her head in disbelief, because she knew that Shaw was not going to budge. She closed the distance between them, circling around so she could at least look at Shaw, _really_ look at her for the first time in months.

“Please, Sameen, come back with me,” Root murmured and put a hand on Shaw’s arm, thinking about the past several months, “You make me better.”

“You don’t need me for that. We’re done here.” Shaw said firmly, “I have to go.” She turned towards the door but did not move.

“Done?” Root smiled bitterly. She took another step forward, and Shaw had to glance away from her lips. A second later, Root found out how much it hurt to punch someone in the face.

Shaw looked back at Root, cracking her neck, already tensed to hit back. She didn’t.

  
“It doesn’t take much force to knock someone out, not nearly as much as say... the torque it takes to snap someone’s neck with your bare hands,” Shaw said with the ghost of a smile, “you just have to do it right. You, should stick to needles and tasers.” She picked up the pack Root had forgotten by the door, and walked out, her left cheek burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martine just likes dangerous dark haired people and breakfast food. 
> 
> Just wanted to thank everyone who's reading, I really appreciate it. I haven't written creatively in a couple years and it's been really fun coming back to this. So thank you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Shaw to come home.

Nobody had closed her eyes. Martine Rousseau stared blankly up at the woman before her, as if questioning which part of the plan was the one where she ended up in a morgue. Claire Mahoney stood there wondering the same thing, and ten floors above Decima agents were clamoring about to get rid of every shred of evidence that Samaritan had been camped out at that hospital. The door behind her opened and closed. Perhaps Greer had sent someone to fetch her. Claire wasn’t ready to leave, because she hadn’t yet summoned up the courage to close Martine’s eyes. 

“I heard the Machine had been located, thanks to your efforts. Congratulations,” Jeremy Lambert said, and took a place next to Claire, his face unreadable.

“Greer said we have to leave her, and that she was lucky it happened in a hospital,” Claire’s voice shook.

“Of course, perhaps they’ll even give her a proper grave,” Lambert cleared his throat, “I suppose, she would say that she was right after all.”

“How’s that?” Claire asked.

“It only ends one way.” Lambert said. He reached over and did what Claire couldn’t do in the thirty minutes she’d been standing there. He unfolded his pocket square, and laid it clumsily where Martine’s neck was starting to bruise. At least she looked peaceful now. He looked Claire in the eyes, and said with a sigh, “It’s not your fault, you know.”

Claire shook her head. She hadn’t liked Martine, the woman was vicious, sadistic, as bad as they come. Martine was the one that sniped her in the shoulder when it should have missed. Claire was not going to miss Martine Rousseau. But she did believe that everyone deserves someone, even just one person, to mourn them when they’re gone. Every life mattered.

“Call it a lapse of professionalism, but while I respected Martine greatly as a peer, she never took her job seriously enough when it mattered,” Lambert said, as if to reaffirm his previous statement.

“Why would you say that? You guys were…” Claire said.

“That was separate from work. And exactly the point I want to make to you Claire,” Lambert said with a bitter smile, “If I were entirely unprofessional, there are words...words about Greer, that I should recant. You really are young, and perhaps the truth of the matter is, you’re looking at your future. One you can avoid.” He gestured back to Martine.

The door opened before she could respond. John Greer looked from Lambert to Claire, disregarding the body on the morgue table entirely. Lambert’s whole persona changed, and he was back to the smirking, straight backed Decima agent he usually was.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Greer?” Lambert asked.

“You were to rendezvous with the team in DC.” Greer said with a frown.

“I flew back when I had heard that Harold Finch had found our base, sir.”

“Very well. You can oversee the apprehending of Mr. Finch, and Ms. Groves, they were spotted in a bodega earlier, I will be en route to DC for the final phase of the Correction.”

“Of course, sir,” Lambert said, and turned to Claire with a reassuring smile, “Well then, Claire.” 

* * *

||Present||

”Are you ready?” Shaw asked, polishing the pieces of her disassembled sniper rifle.

“If I said no, could we put this off a couple days?” Claire replied.

“No, but I could put a couple in the back of your head,” Shaw quipped.

“Okay, I'm ready,” Claire said with a small voice. She finished up loading the packs, and began to hide away the rest of the evidence of their stay in the apartment. Her hands shook, and she hoped Shaw wouldn’t notice.

“Relax, after this you’ll have your freedom. What are you going to do with it?” Shaw asked from the window, inspecting the gps tracker from the sniper rifle.

Claire took a deep breath, and recited the thoughts she repeated in her head these days, “I'm going to finish my degree. Maybe go back to Ohio, teach math at my mother’s old school.”

“That sounds...quaint. You sure it won’t bore you after all-seeing supercomputers and international espionage?” Shaw asked. She picked up the binoculars for the fourth time that day. She had resisted peering across the street before, but her old apartment was empty now. It wouldn’t hurt to give in, all she would see is empty take out boxes and stacks of laptops. She set the binoculars down without looking.

“That's true. Maybe I'll learn my dad’s recipe for chocolate cake too. It was pretty badass, you know.” Claire said, a small smile gracing her lips.

“I better get a piece of that cake. I mean, you did kind of screw me over back at the hospital.” Shaw said.

“I didn’t know you were still so resentful, Shaw.” Claire replied. 

“What do you mean? Resent is the only thing that fuels me,” Shaw said with a smirk.

“What about you Shaw? You still going through with your stupid plan?” Claire asked. 

“Just cause you didn’t come up with it, it doesn’t mean it’s stupid.” Shaw said.

“It’s a stupider plan than any plan I’d come up with.” Claire shot back.

Shaw rolled her eyes at the smart ass kid, “More. Stupid.”

“You have people to go back to. Stop with the revenge nonsense. Go make up with your sloppy girlfriend,” Claire said with a mischievous smirk. Shaw had returned in a deadly mood, with a noticeable bruise on her face last night, and Claire didn’t want to ask. With nothing to do, Claire took on Shaw’s nightly routine of watching the same building across the street for hours straight. It only took an hour for a certain tall brunette figure to stumble into her view. And then Claire smirked because at least someone got to punch her-- at times insufferable-- partner in the face.

“I can’t do that.”

“Shaw-”

“And also, you're calling her sloppy? At least she remembered to use the back entrance when she got home last night.  _ You _ fell asleep by the toilet last week after like two beers,” Shaw said.

“Because I was shot in the leg, and you didn't bother helping your  _ patient  _ after a horrible and traumatizing session involving you and tweezers.” Claire was also still underage, but when you are ready to die for a super artificial intelligence there was room for a little vice.

“Come on. I bought you a six pack,” Shaw said dismissively. Her small grin disappeared when Claire shot her a serious face. The kid sure can be insufferable.

“Shaw, why are you avoiding your friends?” Claire asked.

“I told you. I have to do this,” Shaw said.

“I know you feel bad-”

“I don't feel bad.”

“I know what you did. And you want to make it right, but do you really think a suicide mission is the only way to do that?” Claire asked.

“Thirteen agents. All of them killers, I don't feel bad about a single one. But I traded their lives for mine, and if I have to trade mine to end this Decima shit show once and for all, I will. Just do your part.” Shaw said.

“Your friends-

“It’s not about them. They're still helping people some how. And I don't need them caught up in my shit. The Machine is dead, and Root is still here. They’re doing right by people, and they don’t need to get distracted,” Shaw said. 

“But Shaw, you got your answer didn't you?  The million dollar question. She chose you. She stayed to find you,” Claire said, “If you just see them...look, when I joined the nautilus game, I didn’t have anything left to lose. I was alone. I don’t have anyone to go back to, but you’re different. Don’t...take it for granted.”

Shaw rolled her eyes at this. Insufferable _ and  _ preachy.  _ Who was saving who here? _ She smiled inwardly, the kid was going to be fine.

“Hey,” Shaw said, “you’re not alone. And neither am I.”

Root’s head felt like it could burst, crack open starting from the pressure building behind her right ear. She felt like she was simultaneously in a soundless vacuum and in the middle of a million screaming voices.

“Miss Groves, I think we should stop.”

“We can’t Harold, we’re so close.”

“Am I...interrupting something?” Reese’s voice came from the door of the subway donning a wry smile.

“We are attempting to configure the Machine to be able to communicate with the cochlear implant again. Given that this ability was developed autonomously, there will be some trial and error. Unfortunately, Miss Groves feels every failure deeply.” Finch explained, disregarding Reese’s boyish joke.

“Which is why everyone should just be quiet, so there are two less voices I have to suffer through,” Root quipped.

“You disappeared for a whole day, Root, could have at least called after your little adventure with Shaw,” Reese said with a frown, restocking the ammo locker.

“Sorry, _ mom _ , I’ll call when I stay out past curfew next time,” Root said. An annoyed huff was her only response. 

The truth was she didn’t remember the hours after helping Shaw very much. She remembered standing in that trashed hotel room for a while, long enough that she wanted to kick herself for forgetting the police were probably on their way, prying eyes for Samaritan these days. And then she had walked, directionless, for hours, until she snapped out of her daze standing in front of the 8th precinct. She could see Reese inside hunched over some papers, and Fusco with his leg still in a cast hobbling about. She could have gone to them, maybe even wanted to, but she went into the bodega down the street instead. She woke up staring at a barf stain on Shaw’s rug, home.

“He’s right, Ms. Groves. We were working a number, but Mr. Reese’s thoughts were divided worrying about you,” Finch chimed in. He frowned at Root’s dismissive shrug.

“So what did you find out?” Reese asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Root said with a pout.

“She really is working for Decima then,” Reese concluded.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s just… lost to us, at the moment,” Root sighed, and went back to looking over some numbers on the screen.

“I wouldn’t say that, Miss Groves,” Harold said.

They followed his wide eyed gaze, then turned to each other. The green light of the gps module blinked confidently, naming the location of a certain stolen sniper rifle. 

* * *

The multi level warehouse was built like a fortress. Without any clue what they were getting into, Reese had packed his plan B bag, but Root would have preferred an all-seeing AI versus a couple long guns.

“Are you sure about splitting up, Root? How are you feeling?” Reese asked as they approached the building. They spotted a sniper unconscious, hanging over the roof of the building. It wasn’t clear whether he was dead or knocked out.

“I’ve never been more alive,” Root replied with a cheerful smile. 

“And I want to make sure you stay that way. We should stick together,” Reese said.

“Always so chivalrous, John, but no. Besides, I need you to be my distraction,” Root said while typing something on her phone.

Reese raised a brow at her, but didn’t seem to mind too much about being bait. He studied the image on Root’s phone.

“The floor plan. Two mezzanine levels accessed by a service elevator. Perfect place for a sniper,” Root said.

“And you’re saying Shaw dropped down from the roof?” Reese asked with a frown.

“The guy’s knocked out. She’s been through there,” Root said.

“Or she sniped him from the opposite building, and then snuck in from the back, like we’re doing. You know, the way that doesn’t drop you into right into the middle of an undisclosed amount of angry arms dealers,” Reese replied sardonically.

“Oh I’m sure her evil AI friend gave her some kind of disclosure. She probably knows exactly where she needs to be in there. She’s on the third floor, I know it,” Root said.

“Okay, so you’re going to cross 200 feet of no man’s land with no back up and no idea how many hostiles there are, while I’m going to…?” Reese asked, already poised to note how dumb the plan was no matter the reply. 

“Do I need to define ‘distraction’ for you?” Root asked wryly. She didn’t, because as soon as the words left her mouth, an explosion tore through the east side of the building from a car bomb.

“I believe we found her,” Reese quipped watching the smoke rise, “and her distraction.”  

“She’s still in there, let’s go,” Root said and marched forward.

They were met with a group of hostiles almost immediately, with more approaching from behind the stacks of pallets. Reese turned to Root, and motioned for her to go on.

“Are you sure?” Root asked, handing over her rifle with a nod when he shrugged in response. He was going to need it more. She hurried deeper into the warehouse, keeping closer to the wall, but the various crates and pallets made the room a veritable maze. The elevator was several yards ahead to the right, and she quickened her pace. So when she almost ran into a dark figure, she was thankful that she was quicker to the draw.

“I had him,” Claire Mahoney said, emerging from the shadows. She had her hands in the air, gun in her left, strolling towards Root slowly.

“Put it down, kick it away,” Root ordered, pointing her gun at the girl.

Claire rolled her eyes, but did as she was told, “Really? In the middle of a battlefield, while we’re surrounded? I’m not your enemy. I could’ve had the jump on you but--” 

“Radio Shaw,” Root said.

“I was about to meet up with her, just follow me and--”

_ Click. _

“Fine. Fine. Hey Shaw, someone’s asking for you,” Claire murmured into the radio. 

“You’re giving my location away, Root,” Shaw whispered from the other line.

“You didn’t care to invest in some earpieces?” Root asked, looking up into the other floors trying to spot Shaw.

“Going old school with the analogue walkies, untraceable, didn’t want a certain someone listening in,” Shaw explained.

“And why is that? Why did you lead us here?” Root asked.

“The kid needs our help, Root,” Shaw said.

“She tried to take Harold, why would we help her?” Root asked.

Claire saw him first, when a man came charging from behind Root. Root turned too late, and found herself disarmed and falling heavily on her arm. She watched Claire scramble for the gun she had kicked away, as the man raised his gun. Root closed her eyes, when a resounding shot rang out from the upper levels, and she caught some of the bloodspray.

“She’s necessary, Root,” Shaw answered her previous question, as if nothing happened.

“Geez, dramatic much?” Claire quipped, “You two have some issues to sort out.” She offered Root a hand up.

They both turned to the sound of more boots approaching. Root picked up the attacker’s gun and offered it to Claire. Just then, her right ear felt like it was going to burst. A piercing shriek erupted  from her implant, followed by a discordant murmur.

“Are you okay?” Claire asked, started by her sudden change in demeanor.

“It was a warning from the Machine. Shaw’s about to get ambushed coming down the elevator,” Root said, when she caught her breath.

“Go get her, I’ll catch up,” Claire said without hesitation.

Root nodded, and hurried towards the elevator. She narrowly missed a hail of bullets, ducking behind a large crate. 

“Can you hear me?” She whispered, but the Machine did not reply. If she didn’t clear a path soon, Shaw would be cornered into the elevator. She took a deep breath and rolled out of cover as the elevator reached the bottom, taking out two hostiles along the way. She kept firing until she heard a hollow click, and felt a strong hand grab her arm and slam her against the elevator wall probably harder than necessary.

The bullets stopped, and the sound of several automatic rifles--and one pistol-- being reloaded was the only sound. Root grinned as Shaw gave her a once over, checking for wounds.

“Cornered in an elevator, bullets flying,” Root took a breath, “brings back some shitty memories.”

“I’ll be taking stairs from now on,” Shaw quipped. She turned back to the action, ready to get a jump on the reloading men, but felt Root tug at her sleeve.    

“I think I deserve a do over,” Root said, grin still plastered to her face.

Shaw gave her an exaggerated eyeroll, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Root leaned in closer, and Shaw didn’t stop her when Root put a hand on the back of her neck and pulled her into a kiss. This one was different. Same backdrop, less goodbyes, but just as fervent. Slower. Root leaned her head back against the elevator to catch her breath, and Shaw just watched her.

Root smiled, staring right back. She ran a finger along the bruise still on Shaw’s face.

“Couldn’t make you look bad, even if I tried,” she chuckled, and Shaw responded with another eyeroll.

The sounds of gunfire erupted again, followed by the sound of dropping bodies.

“Issues. Sort them,” Claire said, stepping over the downed men.

“Always good advice,” Reese emerged from the other side of the crate, gun raised.

“Your broody coworker didn’t get the message?” Claire asked backing away.

“John,” Root started.

“The Army teach you how to shoot that?” Shaw asked nonchalantly.

“Did the Marines teach you to plan exit strategies?” Reese shot back, and lowered his gun.

“Yeah, yeah. We still have work to do,” Shaw said.

They combed the building for the explosives Shaw was to sabotage, then left through the back of the building. They followed Claire to the alleyway behind the warehouse, to find their getaway.

“You going to explain any of this?” Reese asked Shaw, falling back, but kept an eye on Claire who had hurried ahead a couple yards.

Shaw turned to him to answer, when a man dashed out ahead of them and fired a shot. Claire fell back into the concrete, holding her chest. She looked up at Shaw, breath accelerating rapidly. There was fear in her eyes.    

* * *

 

||Three Days Prior||

“Were those theatrics necessary, kid?” Shaw huffed,when Claire returned to their makeshift base.

“Relax. They’ve caught on, they found the tracker, they found us, so what’s the problem?” Claire asked taking a seat on the couch, boots on the table.

“You didn’t exactly show that you needed their help,” Shaw replied. She was sat by the window, disassembling her new sniper rifle.

“I didn’t today. I neutralized the threat before they even saw me get in the elevator,” Claire shot back confidently.

“You had a hostile coming around the corner while you and Reese were pointing your guns at each other,” Shaw said, unimpressed.

“I knew you had my back. Are you just mad I was actually pointing my gun at that Root girl?” Claire suggested mischievously.

“That’s another thing, you let her disarm you, and you landed flat on your ass with no exit strategy. You were cornered. You could have caught a bullet,” Shaw said, wondering when she had become team mom.

“Maybe I should have. Save you the trouble. Then you could stop stalking your girlfriend, and just cross the street and meet her.” Claire slumped back in her chair and stared out the window. A pair of binoculars sat on the window sill. Shaw rolled her eyes. Teens and their delicate sensitivities these days.

“I’m not stalking, she invaded my apartment. And our work is important. Don’t forget that,” Shaw huffed, crossing her arms. Claire did her own eye rolling at that.

“They miss you, that’s apparent enough from today. You mean something to them,” Claire said, wondering how Shaw couldn’t see what she had.  

Shaw scoffed and went back to cleaning her new sniper rifle.

“They might not forgive you after this. You don’t have to protect me. Maybe I don’t deserve it. Maybe we’ll just end up dead,” Claire mummered glumly, twirling a thumb drive in her hand.

“Everyone ends up dead. No one decides who deserves what. It just happens,” Shaw shot back, “Listen, I know there have been...casualties. Just do your part. Okay?” Shaw stretched out her hand and took the USB from Claire, “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“But it didn’t just happen. If it wasn’t for Harold, and your friends, I’d be dead right now,” Claire continued, “It’s entropy, Shaw. You guys stopped my death from taking it’s course, and now people are dead because of me. You gave the deck a shuffle, but all it did was throw more chaos in the world. People get hurt anyways.”

“That’s some medium rare bullshit, right there,” Shaw spat, “Look, find a way to live with yourself, because you’re stuck with the person you are.”

“What if this doesn’t work, and we don't end up saving anyone?” Claire asked

“Then we don't save anyone. And you walk away from this,” Shaw said.

“That would make everything meaningless,” Claire flopped to her side on the couch grumpily.

“Not everything has mean something. It's okay to save yourself,” Shaw sighed. She headed over to the fridge. She needed a beer.

“You're shit at comforting people, you know.”

“That's why I was fired from the hospital.”

“That's also not comforting.”

* * *

 

||Present||

”Wait,” Shaw grabbed John’s arm as he raised his gun at Claire's shooter, she turned to the man with a dangerous look, “Go. And if you tell anyone about this, I'll find you.”

Reese shot her an incredulous look. 

“Come on. Help me carry her. Keep pressure on the wound.” Shaw ordered, slinging Claire's arm over her shoulder.

Shaw directed them towards a white van just around the corner. She opened the back to reveal a stockpile of weapons and medical supplies, including a surgical set already laid out by a stretcher.

They laid Claire on the stretcher, and Shaw immediately went to work, cutting open Claire's shirt and cleaning the blood from her shoulder. She picked up a scalpel, and took a deep breath.

“Shaw, what are you doing?” Root broke the silence.

“Surgery.”

“Shaw. I think we deserve an explanation.” Reese said.

“I'm going to keep her alive. And you two will take her back to the subway, and make sure Samaritan can't get to her.” Shaw said, and made the first cut, just above the bullet wound.

“What-?”

“You two were at Maple weren't you? You saw what they were making. Well even after you wrecked their operation there, they recycled some of the chips to use as RFID for their own operatives. It has GPS and vital sign sensors. And a cache of toxins in case Decima’s death on capture clause wasn’t clear.” Shaw explained grimly as she removed what looked like an AAA battery from Claire’s shoulder. “It’s that kind of party.” She looked at Root for a second before moving on to tend to Claire’s bullet wound.

“That is... not a grain of rice.” Root remarked, “You don’t have one, do you?” She breathed a sigh of relief when Shaw shook her head.

“Claire was shot on camera, and fell out of frame. They shouldn’t suspect my tampering with the chip. Avoid the cameras when you bring her to Harold. I’ll take the chip. Make it look like I dumped her in the river. I’ll circle back-- Dammit.” Shaw said. Claire’s breathing came in short bursts and stopped altogether, she was in shock.

“S-she’s not breathing.” Reese hovered behind Shaw.

“I’m aware,” Shaw snapped. She pressed a mask to Claire’s face and turned on the ventilator. Claire’s chest rose and fell with each burst of pressurized air. Shaw kept her hand there until she was satisfied, then turned to look at the two others.

“All according to plan. This one’s a crazy schemer. Like you.” She said to Root.

“She’s even got a body count.” Reese quipped.

“Reese, really?” Shaw said.

“She tried to take Harold, Shaw. Took out two cops, and who knows how many more others before this. The type of work she’d have done for Samaritan, we’ve seen the worst of it. You’d know this if you’d been here. Instead of running around sniping mooks.” Reese snapped accusingly, “Fusco was in a wreck and a shoot out with a Decima assassin, barely scraped by.”

“I know. I saw him in the ICU. He was stupid on morphine.” Shaw smirked. She always had a soft spot for the detective.

“You went to go see  _ him _ , and didn’t bother coming to tell us you weren’t in a dark Decima basement strapped to a chair?” Root asked with a pout.

“I did see you. Stop using my easel as a wire rack. And stop rearranging my fridge.” Shaw replied.

“Dammit, Shaw.” Reese said. “Why did you do all this?”

“She was a number wasn’t she? They don’t stop being numbers just because they don’t want to be saved the first time, John.” She raised a brow at him, daring him to challenge her.

“Did you think about whether she was worth saving, Shaw?” Reese said. He gestured to the clutter in the van, all that was all that was left of weeks of planning. And months of their worry wasted.

“I thought that was a question you didn’t ask yourselves.” Shaw retorted.

“You said, she was necessary.” Root interjected.

Shaw  reached over several crates, and produced a laptop.

“This is the second most important laptop of your life, Reese.” Shaw smirked. “Yeah, they told me all about your friend. Don’t worry, I’m not strapping any bombs on you. This time around, anyway.”

“Is this what I think it is?” Root asked.

“Core Samaritan code. Claire safely retrieved it using the software on the USB you decrypted. This was all we could get from 4.3 seconds.” 

“That’s amazing, Sameen.” Root breathed.

“How did you get them to trust you?” Reese asked.

“You don’t want to know.” Shaw said.

“This isn’t the first time Claire has offered us something like this. Last time, it was a trap.” Reese pressed.

“That’s why she’s offering herself too. When you take her back with you--”

“Wait. You’re not coming with us?” Root asked, the beginnings of anger flushed her face.

“No.” Shaw answered impassively. “I still have things to take care of on my end.”

“Sameen, you don’t have to always do everything alone.” Root pleaded.

“This, I do. I still need to get payback for Grice. I have access, I can take out Greer. I always said I’d do both.” Shaw replied stubbornly.

“Shaw. You do this, you won't come back.” Reese warned.

“Reese. I’m not walking in the dark this time around. I know exactly where I’m going.” Shaw shot back. “Tell Harold, thanks for the job.”

“Ms. Shaw, if I may,” Harold’s voice came in from John’s phone, no doubt having listened the whole time.

“What Harold? Are you going to scold me about adding to the world’s wrongs?” Shaw said, petulant.

“No, Ms. Shaw, that didn’t work on you the first time anyways,” Harold said, “As I recall, you were once a number too. And though it is not a thing we dwell on, I do believe that you are worth saving, Sameen. If you’d let us.”

“I don’t need saving, Harold.” Shaw said.

“You lost someone, you made mistakes. You want to disappear, make things right,” Finch said, “But you should keep in mind, Sameen, that there are people that care for you. You don’t want to leave them behind.”

“Let us help, Shaw. Please.” Root put a hand on her arm.

Harold’s voice continued harsh with static from Reese’s phone. 

“Truth be told, I think you’re in the opposite predicament as Mr. Reese, when I met him. You have a purpose, Sameen, a noble one. But I don’t think you need to do everything in service of that purpose. You could still be yourself. You don’t have anything to prove to anyone. There will still be wrongs to set right, people to save, tomorrow. You could rest.” Finch said.

Shaw thought for a long moment. 

“Okay.” Shaw huffed, and sat down on the floor of the van, “fine.”

“Okay? Just like that? All you needed was a pep talk from Harold?” Root sounded almost jealous.

“Can’t beat the original.” Shaw replied simply.

She took out her phone and crushed it under one of the tools lying around, and did the same to Claire’s chip.

“I’m tired,” Shaw said, “and hungry.”

“Baby,” Reese quipped.

“I say we at least put her in a cage with no electronics for a couple weeks.” Root said to John conspiratorially. He shrugged in agreement.

“Whatever. Just hurry up and take the wheel, Reese. I promised Bear I’d come back,” Shaw leaned back and shut her eyes, “don’t want him to think I left him behind or anything.” She was asleep before the they turned the corner.

* * *

 

“Hope your face gets stuck that way,” Shaw said. 

Reese glared at her from the corner he had tucked himself into since she arrived at the subway. He eyed Claire even more suspiciously, as the ex-Samaritan agent explained the entirety of their plan, how they came to work together, and all the Samaritan related work they did. Reese’s face darkened with each unjustified death, each innocent caught up in the crossfire, each so called deviant Shaw had given up. 

Shaw’s jaw tensed. She knew Reese, she knew he understood, but the fact of the matter was, the subway station was the one place she hadn’t given up, and now Claire had a seat next to a certain blinking briefcase. It would take time to build Reese’s trust back up. She watched Claire give Harold a long tearful hug. She nodded at him when their eyes met, and he gave her a smile. At least they got one of the boys in their corner.

Shaw was currently on Bear’s bed, immobilized. Bear was splayed across her lap, whining whenever she tried to move. Root squeezed in next to her. She glared.

“Three's a crowd, Root.” Shaw said. 

“Noted,” Root smiled mischievously, her mind going to other places, “I’ll just watch then.” She winked--with both eyes.

Shaw rolled her eyes, going back to giving Bear a long belly rub, hopefully long enough to make up for months of absence. She might have to bribe him with a jumbo bone.

Root reached over to scratch Bear behind the ears.

“That was dumb,” Root murmured, “I imagined today for months, and I don’t know what to say now.”

“Then don’t say anything.” Shaw said.

“Sorry, I guess everyone’s been yelling at you all day. I should just give you some time,” Root said, pouting, but did not leave.

Shaw didn’t respond for a long time, not until Bear finally got up to check on Harold, and sniff the stranger. She stretched out her legs, and sighed.

“You know,” Shaw started hesitantly, “everything’s loud anyways. Everything. The universe is always vibrating, making noise.” She cleared her throat, “You can’t see it, you can’t even feel it. But, it’s there. Just have to listen.” She made a half-hearted gesture between them, and immediately regretted it when Root’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a smile blossoming on her face. She glared at the traitorous hand.

“What?” Shaw snapped, “Claire watched a lot of TED talks.”

Root laughed.

“Maybe medicine just wasn’t your field, Sameen, you should have picked cosmology,” Root put a hand on Shaw’s arm, “since you’re so into vibrations.” She wriggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Shaw shoved her hand off with an annoyed huff. Root flinched, holding the wrist she’d fallen on earlier.

“It’s sprained,” Shaw said, going into doctor mode, holding her wrist up. “That’s what you get for trying to save everyone all the time.”

“Just you.” Root said softly.

Shaw replied after a long pause, “I’m okay with that.”  And she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks so much for reading. And to everyone who commented, I really appreciate the feedback. This was so much fun to write. Got a bit distracted writing something else this last chapter. Might post that, might not.
> 
> This story was conceived when I was rewatching Nautilus and I noticed Shaw and Claire never met. For some reason, I had this thought like "Shaw could probably talk her down." Idk, but like Harold was just like, "But ur parents!" And I was like, dude that's gonna just drive her away, she's trying to get away from that dark place. The episode reminded me of Relevance a bit, plus the elevator switcheroo, and the Root comparisons, made me think "damn, Shaw and Claire would be buds."
> 
> Talk characters to me, people. ;)


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